


Not Just Another Bloody Mary

by st1nkf1nger



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band), Repugnant (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, And a lot of swearing, F/M, Mild Blood, Minor Violence, Murder, Other, Porn With Plot, also elitist metalhead opinions, mary goore can be soft he just also hunts evil people for sport, or is he a ghost?, some weird meta humor too, summon a ghost and then fuck him, we don't really know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:21:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24743005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st1nkf1nger/pseuds/st1nkf1nger
Summary: Late one night, you decide to play a little game. Standing in front of your bathroom mirror, lit only by candles, you whisper that name that you'd been curious about for years."Bloody Mary."
Relationships: Mary Goore/Female Reader, Mary Goore/Reader
Comments: 18
Kudos: 148
Collections: The Band Ghost





	1. Chapter 1

You aren’t sure, specifically, _what_ prompted you to do it. 

Maybe it’s to prove to yourself that you aren’t afraid, or maybe it’s to satisfy some sort of burning curiosity that you didn’t know you had. Maybe you’re just a stubborn fuck that has to poke at things beyond your comprehension. Regardless, you find yourself in your candlelit bathroom late one evening, just past midnight, staring at your reflection in the mirror.

“Bloody Mary.”

Your voice wavers just a little as you speak the name. A strange breeze flutters your candles, and a shiver crawls up your spine. Dismissing it as merely your air condition kicking on -- despite the fact that your shirt is sticking to your back with sweat -- you squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep, steadying breath.

“Bloody Mary.”

Something, somewhere within your apartment building, groans -- a deep, quiet sound that sets your teeth on edge. _I’m not afraid, I’m not afraid, I’m not afraid._ Your eyes snap open and you glare at your reflection with steely determination.

“Bloody Mary.”

The mysterious breeze returns, stronger this time, snuffing out the myriad of candles in one fell swoop and bathing you in utter darkness. Your hands tremble as you blindly search for the light switch, but before you can find it, you hear a quiet _drip, drip, drip_ that had not been there before. In the pitch black, you can barely make out a figure in the mirror’s reflection. For a moment you think it’s merely your eyes struggling to see in the darkness, and you’re seeing your own reflection.

But no. There’s _your_ reflection, but what is that behind you? There’s someone -- or some _thing --_ here with you now. 

Ice-cold fear lances through your stomach as the dark figure behind you tilts its head to one side and extends an arm. For one heart-stopping second, you think the figure is reaching for _you_ , and you whirl around. In that same instance, the figure flicks the light switch on. Startled by the sudden brightness, you flinch and blink, trying to let your eyes adjust.

“She’s fuckin’ busy.”

Standing before you, wearing an irritated expression, is a young man with a dark hair that falls dramatically over his eyes, squinting at the brightness of the light. Pale and gaunt and absolutely _covered_ in dripping blood, this odd stranger seems to have materialized out of thin air. His clothes -- snug-fitting ripped jeans and a loose tank top beneath a sleeveless, studded denim vest -- look like they’d fit in better at a black metal concert than in your bathroom. He turns on the spot as he takes in his surroundings, throws his hands up in exasperation, and lets them flop down to slap his thighs. The many buttons on his vest rattle like an angry skeleton. You must be staring because he saddles you with an impatient scowl.

“Well? The fuck do you want?” He arches a thick brow at you, expectant.

“Uhh...? Who are you, exactly?” You’re _so_ confused.

“...Bloody Mary.” He says it as if it’s obvious.

“Isn’t Bloody Mary supposed to be a ghost woman that tries to kill me?”

Suddenly, he flashes you a predatory grin, his teeth glinting. From somewhere on his person, he pulls out a _wickedly_ sharp bowie knife about half the length of his forearm. Like his teeth, it gleams in the fluorescent light of your bathroom -- hungry and dangerous. He brandishes it with a twist of his wrist, seemingly reveling in your fear.

“I could always kill ya, doll, if you _really_ want me to.”

You recoil, bumping into the sink behind you, eyeing the knife with wide, fearful eyes. “No, please, I’m sorry, I--”

“Relax,” mutters Mary with a roll of his eyes, cutting across your fearful rambling. He slides the knife back into the holster at the small of his back. “She said I ain’t allowed to kill anyone while on the job anymore. Tch.” He scoffs and dramatically gestures around him, palms spreading wide. “So do you live in a shitty bathroom or is there more to this place?”

Wordlessly, you reach over to the knob, twist it, and push open the door.

“Sick, thanks.” He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his rattling vest, and strides past you without another word.

For a moment, you stand in your bathroom, trying to piece together what the _fuck_ just happened. From within your apartment, you hear a strange sort of clatter, and understanding crashes over you like a tidal wave. You scurry out to find this ‘Bloody Mary’ in your kitchen, rooting through your pantry like some kind of wild animal digging through the garbage. All you can do is stand there, staring slack-jawed, as he turns your kitchen upside down.

He places one steel-toe boot on the bottom shelf of your pantry and with a slight grunt of effort, hauls himself up higher to make a grab for the stuff just out of his reach. As he extends his hand upward, his shirt and vest ride up, revealing the lethal blade holstered at the small of his back. You shiver at the sight of it.

“U-Uh… what are you looking for, exactly? Maybe I can help?” You don’t want to draw attention to yourself, really, but the sooner he gets what he wants, the sooner he can leave.

Suddenly, he’s releasing the shelf and dropping the last few inches to the floor. “Nope, found it.” He brandishes a can of Pringles and gives them a little shake. “Once ya pop… ya just can’t _stop_.” With a wink and a click of his tongue, he slaps you amicably on the arm, and flicks off the lid with one thumb. 

As he tips the can into his mouth, he turns and leaves the kitchen without a backward glance. You scurry after him, hoping to prevent any more damage to your apartment.

He saunters from the kitchen into your living room, munching on a mouthful of chips, and casts a glance around your modest, bland furnishings. With a derisive snort, his eyes flick from your living room setup to you, judgement blatantly obvious.

“What are you, some kinda fuckin’ normie?”

Taken aback by his insulting vulgarity, you knit your brows together into your best scowl. “I can barely afford to pay my rent, okay? ‘Normie’ furniture is affordable.”

His eyebrows leap upwards as he blinks in shock. “Wow, okay… shit, my bad.” He grimaces, looking genuinely remorseful, and scratches at the back of his head. For a moment, he stands there, sucking chip crumbs from the gaps in his teeth and looking awkwardly around, before he turns back to you. “You, uh… got any vinyl?”

“...Vinyl?”

“Yeah, yanno, like records.” He drags his tongue through the crevices of his mouth, collecting stray crumbs and eyeing you expectantly. 

“No, I listen to music digitally, like every other normal person.”

“Ugh. Digital.” He rolls his eyes and empties the chip can into his mouth. “Man,” he says, voice muffled as he chews enthusiastically. “Vinyl’s like the purest form of music besides hearin’ it live. You just can’t get the same kinda sound outta digital.” Swallowing, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and carelessly tosses the empty chip can over his shoulder.

“I… can show you what I listen to, if you want?” You fish for your phone in your pocket, and unwrap the headphone cord from around it.

He eyes the phone mistrustfully. “Eh... those fuckin’ things’ll give you cancer, dude.” His lip curls, baring those white teeth as his nose wrinkles in obvious distaste.

“Oh, come on. That’s just a myth.” You cross the room to sit on the couch as you scroll with one thumb through your music library. Distantly, you’re aware of the utter _absurdity_ to your current circumstances, but you’ve made the decision to just roll with it. Clearly this is just some kind of incredibly vivid, weird-ass dream, right? You place an earbud in your ear and hold out the other one to him.

With cautious eyes, he regards you, and you can almost see the wheels in his head turning. After a moment of hesitation, he cocks his head to one side. “...Got any beer?”

Blinking a little in surprise, you nod and gesture back towards the kitchen. 

With a click of his tongue and a single finger gun fired in your direction, he disappears from view, and you hear some rummaging in your fridge. There’s a thunking sound -- like something banging lightly against your counter -- followed by a trickling, a splashing, and a quiet “ _ah, fuck_.” Mary returns a moment later, bringing a dripping bottle of beer to his lips as he gracelessly clambers onto the couch and sits cross-legged beside you. You offer the earbud, which he takes with a grimace, and once you show him how to properly insert it into his ear, you scroll to your metal playlist and hit play.

“Ah, these fuckers,” Mary says with a shake of his head, talking louder than normal to be heard over the roar of Ghost through the earbud. “Yeah, they’re pretty alright, I guess. Cirice is fuckin’ dope, but I could take or leave Prequelle.”

“What?! Prequelle’s their best album yet! It’s so _pretty._ ”

“You’re fuckin’ trippin’, babe.” He flashes you a shit-eating, lopsided grin, bringing the bottle to his lips again. “Meliora, followed by Infestissumam.” He takes a swig of beer and throws one arm over the back of the couch. “Although, I will freely admit to Faith being sick as hell. That crunchy riff? Fuck me runnin’, I wish I had my guitar...”

“But Dance Macabre, though.”

“Tch, that’s not metal,” he mutters venomously, scowling as he takes another sip of beer. “Just some bullshit bubblegum pop wrapped up in a black bow. Fuckin’ Swedes and their love of ABBA.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s kinda cool that their sound is so versatile.” You lean against the back of the couch, obliviously resting your head against Mary’s shoulder. “I mean, growly death metal is good and all, but it does kinda start to blur into one big scream after awhile.”

“I fuckin’ _know_ I did not just hear you imply that all death metal sounds the same,” he replies, casting you an absolutely _affronted_ glare. “How dare you.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Okay, well, how do you feel about Seven Inches of Satanic Panic?” Your thumb scrolls down to Mary On a Cross and you glance at him, gauging his reaction.

He sits there, brow knit, as he listens to the music flooding his earbud. As he starts to get into it, his lips twitch into a little smirk, and he bounces his leg in time with the beat.

“Okay, shit, you got me there. That one’s pretty sick. You sure that’s Ghost?”

Grinning, you nod vigorously. “Yeah, their newest… album? I guess? It’s just two songs but they’re both fantastic. I really dig their stuff!”

Mary’s eyes hold your gaze for a long moment, entirely unreadable as he studies you. Just when the prolonged eye contact is beginning to get uncomfortable, he slaps his thighs, shifts a little closer, and looks down to the phone screen. 

“Aight, so show me some more.”

The two of you whittle away some time like this, sharing music choices. Metallica, Pantera, Nightwish, Mastodon -- the list goes on and on. He outright refuses to listen to GWAR or Cannibal Corpse, but Rammstein, Nifleheim, Anathema, and Pentagram he lists amongst his favorites. You put on Babymetal and Lady Baby for him, mostly just to see his reaction. At first, he merely looks confused -- the endearingly baffled expression on his face makes you giggle -- but after a second play through, he does admit to finding their songs “catchy as fuck”. Eventually, you cycle back to Ghost.

“C’mon, just give it a chance! I think you’ll like it.” You tap play on Dance Macabre despite his disgruntled expression and growl of frustration, and settle back against his shoulder to listen. As the music washes over you, your eyes close and you take a deep breath.

 _You'll soon be hearing the chime_ _  
__Close to midnight_ _  
__If I could turn back the time_ _  
__I'd make all right_

You glance up at him, smiling hopefully, only to find his eyes are already on you. Your smile falters -- he looks so _angry_ , and you suddenly remember that he’s carrying a very large knife. 

_Just wanna be_ _  
__Wanna bewitch you in the moonlight_ _  
__Just wanna be_  
I wanna bewitch you all night

Heart suddenly hammering, you pull back a little in fear, but he’s quicker. He closes the distance between you, grabs at the back of your neck, and yanks your mouth to his in an scorching kiss. He’s a little aggressive in his pursuit of you, turning your head to the side for better access and holding your neck firm, but his lips are gentle against yours. You taste the unmistakable tang of blood on your tongue.

You pull back with a shocked squeak, and he lets you go immediately.

“I ain’t gonna lie,” he mutters, his lip pulling into a lopsided smirk. “I did _not_ think I could do that. Like… ‘cause I’m a ghost? Well, I mean, I _think_ I am, anyway...” Momentarily, he frowns down at his hands in slight confusion and then as if remembering your existence, his eyes flick back up to meet your gaze.

“...Why _did_ you do that?” Your face -- no, your whole body -- feels suddenly very warm. You gently tug the earbuds out of your ear and his.

He shrugs. “‘Cause you’re hot? And you have fuckin’ _sick_ taste in music?” He says it as if it’s obvious. “I mean, you like Avenged Sevenfold, but no one’s perfect.”

The “hot” part is what gives you pause. All of a sudden you’re fourteen again and your crush -- someone way out of your league, of course -- is asking you out, amidst a chorus of mean laughter that taunts you from all sides. You look away from him, snatching up your phone and hastily wrapping the cord around it.

“You should go.”

“...Huh? W-Wait!”

In a bid to escape and forget this ever happened, you move to scramble off the couch but he grabs your arm and stops you. His grip is gentle enough that if you really wanted to escape, you could, but your brain seems to be warring with itself. Indecisively, you settle for looking away from him and trying to calm your pulse.

“I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have fuckin’... done it like that. I won’t grab next time, okay?” Brow knit in concern, he leans in a little, his fingers clumsily brushing against your cheek to turn your face towards his. 

“Next time?” You cast him a demure look through your lashes.

“Yeah.” With hooded eyes, he flashes you that lopsided grin of his. “Like right now, for starters.” 

He kisses you again, gentler this time, his hand tangling in your hair. Quietly, you sigh against his mouth as you melt into the kiss and your lips part in an invitation. His hand tightens in your hair a fraction. You get the distinct impression being _soft_ is a challenge for him, but he’s trying. Humming his approval, he slides his tongue into your mouth to taste you, and distantly, you’re aware of his hand sneaking beneath your shirt. When he palms a breast, his thumb sliding deliberately over your nipple through the material of your bra, you gasp and pull back a little.

“...Is this okay, baby?” Those eyes of his are dark and hooded with desire, his voice is rough and low, but he freezes the moment you withdraw. “I can stop if --”

Clumsily, you clamber into his lap, straddling his lean thigh that drapes over the edge of the couch, all while attempting to maintain contact between your lips and his. You’re not exactly an expert at this sort of thing, but you manage. He chuckles against your mouth, his hands squeezing your hips and waist and ass greedily now. You can feel him, already hard and primed for you, and the sensation of it has your stomach doing somersaults.

“Good to know my shit still fuckin’ works,” he says, in a quiet voice -- almost growling. “I was gettin’ kinda worried there.”

“Been awhile?”

“Way too fuckin’ long.”

Without further hesitation, he rucks up your shirt and yanks it off, leaving you in just your bra. Immediately, his mouth latches onto your collarbone. There’s a slight pinch as his teeth scrape your skin and he sucks at the spot, _hard_. After a second, he lifts his head to admire his handiwork, groaning in delight at the sight of the bruise that’s beginning to blossom.

“You’re so fuckin’ _soft,”_ he growls, his hands latching onto your hips and grinding you down onto his thigh. “But you made me so fuckin’ hard, baby. You feel it?” He guides your hand to that hardness between his legs, and a quiet moan escapes him as you palm him through his jeans. “It’s for you, sweet thing. It’s _all_ for you.” 

You lean down to kiss him, and moan into his mouth when he gives the leg you’re riding a bounce. Why the _fuck_ are you still wearing so many clothes? Your clit is beginning to throb with need, and there are just too many layers between his skin and yours.

His breath is ragged now, sometimes hissed through clenched teeth, as you wiggle and rock your hips in a slow circle. Your head falls back as you gyrate against his thigh, losing yourself in the feel of him -- solid and warm and not at all ghost-like. You can tell this angle and lack of skin-to-skin contact is beginning to frustrate him. With a growl, he gives his hips a twitch, fingers digging with bruising hardness into your waist.

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me jizz my fuckin’ jeans.” With a predatory look in his eyes, he watches you grind yourself against his thigh, teeth clenching around a snarl of desire. 

“You do look about ready to pop, and once you pop...” You lean closer to his face, and tease him with another slow grind of your hips along his thigh.

“I ain’t _poppin’_ till you’re cumming on my tongue, my fingers, or my fat fuckin’ cock, sweetheart. Preferably all three.”

Suddenly, he’s tipping you backward, and you fall onto the couch, your thighs coming around his hips. For a moment he merely sits back on his heels, staring down at you with that wolfish, hungry look to his eyes, drinking in the sight of you. Bracing his weight on his hands, he falls down to you and buries his face into the crook of your neck. You suck in a hissing breath as his teeth press sharp and deliberate into your pulse point, and he’s sucking hard at your skin again, leaving blossoms of purple in his wake. 

A whine escapes you, needy and desperate. He presses his hips against you, panting and growling and moaning in your ear, in time with the rhythm of his thrusts like he’s actually fucking you. At this point, it’s all you can do to cling to his slight frame and squeeze his hips with your thighs.

“Bed… bedroom, please!” you gasp, as his hips snap forward with particularly strong force, and your cunt throbs with sudden urgency.

“Someone’s eager.” He lifts his head to look you in the eye, and flashes that lopsided grin. You really don’t need to tell him twice. And you _did_ say please. 

Without another word, he wraps his arms around your midsection, and hauls you unceremoniously over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. With a minor grunt of effort -- and a surprised squawk from you -- he hefts you, gaining a better grip on your ass, and wanders down the hallway towards your bedroom.

With some minor directing (“Left! The door on the left!”), Mary finds the correct room, and neatly drops you on the mattress. With an appreciative eye, you watch him toe out of his boots, shrug out of his vest, and divest himself of his sleeveless shirt. He’s thin and muscular, with a light dusting of dark hair across his chest that trails down beneath the waistband of his jeans. Scars and tattoos -- mostly stick and pokes -- pepper his torso here and there. He approaches you on the bed, his eyes dark and predatory and _hungry._

“These gotta fuckin’ go,” he says, and his hands come to the waistband of your pajama bottoms, his intent crystal clear. But he pauses and waits for your permission, his eyes holding your gaze.

At your nod, he gives the pants a swift yank, bringing them down to your ankles in one fell swoop. Impatiently, you kick your feet, trying to get them off all the way, but then he’s leaning over you, and his hand is suddenly there between your legs. You gasp in surprise. His fingertips inexpertly trace the shape of you through the crotch of your panties, and those hungry eyes of his drink in your reactions like a fine wine.

“Fffffuck, you’re so _wet_ ,” he moans into your ear. “Is that all for me, baby? How ‘bout I give that sweet little pussy of yours a taste, huh?”

You expect him to wriggle down the length of your body to answer his own question, but instead, he rolls over on his back next to you. Brows furrowed, you prop yourself up on one elbow and look down at him in confusion.

“But, I-I thought --”

“I want you to sit on my fuckin’ face, doll.” He flashes you a grin, grabs one of your pillows, and tucks it underneath his head. “C’mon, smother me with those soft as fuck thighs. If I die, I die.”

“I thought you were a ghost.”

“I don’t know what I am except _fuckin’ horny_ ,” he replies, his brows knitting into an impatient scowl. “Are you gonna fuckin’ ride my face or what?”

Biting your lower lip, you clamber over him -- pausing only for a moment when he grabs your ass -- and pull off the pajama bottoms bunched around your ankles. A tortured groan from him gets your attention, and you look over to see him watching you intently. He’s unzipped his fly, and he’s breathing hard as he palms himself through his plaid boxers. A faint wet spot has formed on the material of them. The knowledge that you’re the cause of this insatiable lust has heat pooling in your belly. Slowly, to really tease him, you slide your undies from your hips and let them fall to your ankles. 

A wild thought suddenly grabs you and you just can’t _not_ see it through. With a kick of your leg, you send the panties sailing over to him, and they land squarely on his face. You expect Mary to yank them off, toss them away, but he just bunches them up under his nose with his free hand and inhales deeply. The visual turns you on more than you’d expect.

You decide, _fuck it,_ and lose the bra as well. You stand there a moment, suddenly overwhelmed with nerves to be completely naked. His dark eyes stare openly at your body, appreciative but impatient.

“Get the fuck over here already,” he growls.

Obediently, you climb back into the bed. There’s some minor fumbling as you carefully position yourself on your knees, straddling his mouth. Your face feels hot with embarrassment and you hesitate, hovering over him with uncertainty. His arms come around your thighs and he yanks you closer, until he can reach you. With a half-feral snarl, he mouths hungrily at your folds, his eyes fluttering shut. You cry out, your hand latching onto his hair, and your hips automatically rolling against his mouth.

“Oh, fuck… Mary...” 

Mary’s intense eyes snap open at the sound of his name and he meets your gaze. His hands tighten around your thighs -- now smeared with the blood from his face -- and his mouth continues its merciless onslaught. You rock your hips against his mouth, panting and moaning, and he rewards each noise you make with groans and growls and lewd slurps at your cunt. 

Tighter and tighter he winds you, seemingly content to draw our your climax as long as he can. When your thighs tighten around his head, he slows down or pulls off your pussy entirely.

“Please! Mary, _please,_ I’m so fucking close…” You whine in distress when he ruins your orgasm for a third time. 

He chuckles, low and quiet, and suddenly his tongue goes off, flicking and curling, and he shakes his head against your cunt like a dog with a bone. He sucks _hard_ at your throbbing clit and you double over from the force of your climax, breathlessly mashing your pussy against his mouth. When the pleasure finally ebbs, you expect him to stop so that you can breathe. 

But he doesn’t.

He continues on, persistent in your pleasure, even as you whine and squirm and twitch atop him. You try to pull away, squealing sharply with overstimulation, but his arms tighten around your thighs like a vice. With that talented, filthy mouth of his, he drags out another orgasm, then _another_ , and only when you’re convulsing and practically screaming does he allow you to pull away.

Breathless and twitching from the aftershocks, you roll off him, flopping bonelessly onto the mattress. You spend a few seconds trying to catch your breath, arm draped over your eyes. Endorphins surge through you in a rush, and you find yourself giggling helplessly. Mary rolls onto all fours behind you, and his mouth connects with the outer curve of your hip. He hums, bites down, and sucks again, marking you for a third time.

You twist a little to look up at him as he leans over you. He mouths a sweet kiss to your shoulder, and you giggle as the kiss becomes a gentle nip. He flashes you that charming, crooked grin.

“You got condoms, baby?” 

“Yeah, um… over in the nightstand.”

He pulls away from you, and you hear some rummaging in your drawer. You roll over fully onto your back, watching him as he pinches off a package from the strip of condoms and places it between his teeth. With one hand, he manhandles his cock out of his boxers, sighing he stares without pretense at your body. 

Under normal circumstances, you’d feel a little bashful at being so blatantly stared at, but the look in his eyes only fans the ember between your legs. For some relief, you drag one hand across your tits, gently tweaking your nipples, holding his gaze. A quiet, sighing moan escapes you, and his hand on his cock speeds up a little.

“You’re a fuckin’ nasty little thing, ain’t ya?” he asks, voice muffled a little around the condom package. “Just gotta get you goin’ and you turn into a fuckin’ slut.”

Your other hand travels down between your legs, and you give a breathy moan as your fingers swipe at your wet pussy. You’re a little surprised by your need to come again, so soon. “Please, Mary…”

“...Fuck.” His hand stutters on his cock a little at the sight of you begging him so openly.

He fumbles with the condom, ripping it open and rolling it on in the same motion. Practically tripping over his feet in his haste, he returns to you. Nestled between your legs, he captures your mouth in a sloppy kiss and draws your thigh around his hips. You whimper, wriggling your hips in desperation, trying to bring him closer. You _ache_ for penetration, and every nerve ending of your skin is buzzing. 

“I got you, baby… mm, fuck, do I ever.”

“Mary, _please…”_

With one hand, he guides himself to your hole, slipping a little against your slick folds, before finally finding purchase. Slowly, he pushes forward, filling you inch by _glorious_ inch. You cry out, hands latching onto his hair. A shaky, tortured groan escapes him and he buries his face into the crook of your neck as his hands fist in the sheets. It takes him only a moment to collect himself before he’s moving, setting a brutal pace from the get-go. Your nails scrabble against his back, digging red lines into his skin, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He nips and sucks at your neck and shoulder and collarbone, muttering _filthy_ things under his breath as he pounds into you.

“--takin’ my cock so fuckin’ good, sweetheart… fuck, I’m gonna cum all over those pretty tits of yours. So -- nngh -- so fuckin’ soft… shit --” Momentarily breaking his rhythm, he shifts, lifting one of your legs and hooking it over his shoulder.

There’s an ache in your thigh as he leans down to kiss you, his tempo once more picking up speed. One of his hands skate up to your breast, kneading it for a moment before tweaking your nipples until you moan. His mouth is at your throat, your collarbone, your breast -- biting and sucking and marking you again and again and again. A quiet whine of distress escapes you, prompting him to work his hand between your sweaty bodies. His fingers swipe clumsily at your clit, but he’s too caught up in his own rhythm to focus.

“I’m so close, please--” Your hand moves down to overlap his, guiding him just where you need him.

“Come for me, sweetness, c’mon, come on this dick for me,” he murmurs, slowing his own tempo down to focus entirely on that slick clit of yours. “Fuck, baby, you’re so fuckin’ good for me.”

With those fingers of his pressing and tapping on your clit, he ekes one more demi-orgasm from your cunt, something soft and gentle in its pleasure that makes your leg tremble. You moan and sob with relief, wrapping your arms around his neck as he kisses you almost tenderly. He groans, ragged and deep, in your ear as your walls clench around him just right.

“Ohh, fuck, I’m gonna come… gonna fuckin’ come, baby. Just like that, don’t you fuckin’ move.” 

He picks up speed again, eyes squeezing shut tightly as he uses your hole to chase his pleasure. A few more thrusts and he tenses with a growl, his hips twitching with such force that he pushes you up the bed an inch or two. His cock pulses within you and he shudders with each little aftershock. There’s a distinct tremble to his arms and legs now. Spent and sated, he drops his weight fully atop you and buries his face between your tits.

For a few breathless moments, you lay together like that, regaining your composure. You can feel his heart pounding against your stomach. Your hands card through his sweat-damp hair and he hums his approval. This is certainly the best dream you’ve had in awhile.

“Didn’t cum on your tits,” he mutters, sounding disappointed indeed, in a voice muffled by those very tits.

“Next time.”

He lifts his head a little to look you in the eye, something uncertain yet hopeful in his gaze. “Next time?”

“If you want to,” you whisper, cheeks suddenly warm. 

“Fuck yeah, I do.” Grinning that crooked grin of his, he leans in, steals a kiss from your lips, and clambers off you. “Gonna go… uh… clean up.” He hesitates a moment, thinking. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“It’s my apartment,” you reply, smiling. “Where would I go?”

Playfully, he shoots you a scowl, points two fingers at his own eyes and then at you in that ‘I’m watching you’ gesture, and exits the room. You giggle a little to yourself, and slide out of bed to do your own clean up. When you no longer feel tacky with various dried fluids, you return to bed, drawing the blankets over your naked form and settling into the mattress. Sleep’s irresistible siren call tugs at your limbs, and you drift off to a contented slumber in mere moments.

You come to consciousness the next morning to the horrible electronic squawk of your alarm. Groaning and squeezing shut your eyes to ward off the intrusive sunlight, you blindly extend an arm out to your nightstand, searching for the snooze button. 

But someone else beats you to it.

With a grunt from behind you, Mary rolls onto his knees, leans over you, and begins fumbling with something in his half-asleep state. He gives the alarm clock cord a sharp yank and unplugs it from the wall. Muttering under his breath, he returns to you, tucking himself tight against your back and burying his face into the nape of your neck.

“Too fuckin’ early,” he mumbles, squeezing your middle.

“...What--?” 

You roll in his embrace, turning to face him. There he is, beneath your blankets with you, in just his boxers now, arms tight around your waist. All the blood has been washed from his face, leaving just his pale, gaunt features. Brows knit into a scowl, he makes a disgruntled noise as you move, and cracks open one bleary eye.

“More sleep, please.” He sighs, wiggles a little further down your body, and presses his face into your chest. Again, he attempts to fall back asleep, but you’re not about to let that happen.

“You’re _real_.”

He snorts. “I gave you the dickin’ of a fuckin’ lifetime last night, baby. I’d say that more than qualifies me for real.”

“That wasn’t a dream?”

You feel him grin against your skin and he chuckles in a very self-satisfied sort of way. “I know, I fuckin’ pounded you into mattress hella good, didn’t I? What was it, four times that I --”

Interrupting this train of thought, you tilt his head up to meet his eyes. He seems so solid, so _real_ , and yet he’d materialized out of thin air in your bathroom. Your fingers brush across his cheek and your brows knit in confusion. His smile falters, replaced instead with concern and bewilderment.

“What are you?”

“Baby, if I knew, I’d fuckin’ tell ya. You said you wanted a next time, so I stayed.” He frowns, sudden insecurity creeping into his gaze. “Should I… not have?”

“No, it’s okay. I-I just. Need a minute.” 

“Take all the time you want, sweetness. _I’m_ going back to sleep.” 

And with that, he plants his face against your chest, mouths a few kisses to the skin there, and falls asleep within moments. You lay awake for a little, listening to him breathe and stroking your hands through his hair. This certainly wasn’t a turn you expected your life to take, but you can’t say you’re not pleased with it. You settle in his arms, smiling a little to yourself. 

You’re going to have to stock up on Pringles.


	2. Chapter 2

There’s a saying that you shouldn’t feed strays or else they’ll follow you home. It’s sound advice—especially if you don’t know the stray’s history or temperament. But what if this particular stray was just _really_ pretty?

In the time following your accidental summoning of one Mary Goore, he’s decided that he wants to stick around, but this Bloody Mary isn’t a tame little house pet. He hangs around for a few days: judging your music, eating your snacks, and fucking you into oblivion. On the morning of the fifth day, just as you were beginning to get used to his presence, you wake to find him gone. A tiny stab of pain lances through your heart. You sort of figured this would happen eventually—Mary never really struck you as the domestic type—but it stings a bit regardless. Your apartment feels so empty without him skulking around now. Those first few days, you half expect him to burst out of your closet to scare you.

Your life slowly returns to normal, but you can’t pretend like you don’t miss him. Sometimes you find yourself lingering in your bathroom, warring with yourself. The fantasy of calling his name and summoning him again becomes like an ache inside you. It becomes a game in and of itself—standing in your dark bathroom and resisting the urge to say the words.

Just when you’re beginning to wonder if maybe you’d imagined Mary Goore’s entire existence, he reappears quite suddenly.

“You should _really_ lock your window.”

His voice is quiet, but the unexpected sound of it makes you jump regardless. You’d just entered your bedroom, carrying a basket of clean laundry for folding, to find him crouched on your windowsill—the window in question wide open. In your shock, you’d dropped your basket, scattering laundry across the floor. He looks about the same as the last time you saw him—skinny, pale, and with fresh, glistening red covering his face and dribbling down his front. You’re beginning to wonder if it’s just makeup. He’s picked up a leather jacket somewhere in his travels, and there’s a red flannel tied around his waist now.

“...I live on the third floor.”

“Serial killers can climb.” He cocks his head to one side, saddling you with an intense glower. He doesn’t move, not yet—not until you ask him to. He’s kind of a shit like that.

“Are you okay? That looks... fresh.”

He looks down at himself, at the red droplets staining the front of his shirt. Then, with a toss of his head to move his hair from his eyes, he meets your gaze again. Even. Calm.

“Not my blood.”

A thrill chases up your spine. Is he serious? All you can do is stare at him, still trying to piece together _what_ exactly he is. In the time that he’s been gone, you’ve done a little research, but it’s always ended up inconclusive. It’s been _beyond_ frustrating.

“Oh.”

“So… can I come in?” 

Mary arches a brow, his expression guarded. There’s something different about him now, like a skittish wild dog that’s been without human contact for a long time. He waits, perched on the window seat, as the curtains flutter about him like something out of a classic horror flick. 

“Yes.”

At your nod, his expression shifts. As if suddenly a different person, he flashes you that crooked, charming grin of his and hops down from the window bench. With a sort of slow, lackadaisical swagger to his gait, he approaches you and pulls you into his embrace. The wet redness that drenches his front clings unpleasantly to your skin, cold and clammy, but he’s warm in your arms. Humming, he nuzzles his sticky face against your neck and chuckles when you shiver.

“Did you miss me, baby?” Softly, he drags his teeth against the juncture where your shoulder meets your neck. 

“Yes.” 

Your fingers curl into the sides of his shirt as he lifts his head and kisses you. As his tongue slides into your mouth, his hand moves up to the back of your neck, holding you firm. He tastes like smoke and beer, and that unmistakable copper tang of blood is nearly overwhelming on your tongue. With another quiet hum, he pulls back just a little, his eyes dark with desire.

“I brought you a present, doll. I have it here with me.” With his eyes locked onto yours, he grabs your wrist and guides your hand down to the hard bulge between his legs. When you cup him through the thick material of his jeans, he moans low and rough in your ear. 

“Mm, you want it, sweetness?”

“ _Yes._ ”

For the next few days, he hangs around your apartment, and it’s like he never left. Again, he judges your music, he eats all your snacks, and he fucks you into oblivion. Nightly, he has you sit in his lap, your back against his chest, while the two of you watch old horror movies. You get the distinct impression that he’s not really _watching_ anything besides you, though. His hands are too busy roaming and exploring—a pinch here, a caress there—and it’s a miracle if you two get through a single movie without interruptions. You’re not sure what it is about horror that turns him on so much, and you never work up the courage to ask.

Somewhere in his travels, he’s picked up a _huge_ wad of cash. When you fret over being able to afford more beer or food or condoms, he wordlessly pulls it from his pocket and slaps several hundred on the table. Any time you try to ask where he got so much money, he quickly changes the subject, which does nothing to soothe your worries.

Just when you think you’ve gotten a bead on his personality, he surprises you. He can be so unexpectedly soft sometimes that it makes your heart ache.

Every night, he’ll rail you as hard as he can—leaving you sore, exhausted, covered in bite marks and scratches and hickies—fucking you like he _hates_ you. But when it’s over, and he’s coming down from that high, he draws you gently into his arms and soothes each mark that he’s left with soft kisses. He scrounges up pain relievers and water. Mary lays on his back, your head pillowed on his shoulder, and drags his fingertips slow and almost tender across your skin, tracing invisible patterns on your arm. You sigh; he hums and presses a kiss to the crown of your head. He sleeps tucked tight against you, his nose buried in your hair.

And in the morning, he’s gone—even after barely two weeks. He steals away so soundly every time that you’re always left wondering if he isn’t some kind of vivid hallucination. He doesn’t leave behind any evidence at all—no note, nothing. It’s as if he vanishes entirely, and it hurts every single fucking time.

For days after he disappears, you wonder if it’s something _you’re_ doing wrong. Cruel thoughts begin to creep into your mind. Does he get bored of you? Are you just some kind of toy to him? Just when you’re really beginning to question your own sanity, he returns. It’s the same as always — he’s covered in fresh blood and sneaking in through your window in the middle of the night. He always asks if you missed him, and you can’t ever lie, even when he deserves it.

You _always_ miss him.

It goes like this for some time—prolonged periods of his absence followed by a few short days of him bumming around your apartment, gunking up your shower with blood, and eating all your food. Eventually, your curiosity and frustration won’t let you stew in silence anymore.

You ask the question late one night, after a particularly exhausting fuck. You’ve learned that the afterglow is the best time to needle him for information. He’s beginning to show the signs of impending abandonment again—the extra softness he has with you, the way he watches everything you do, and his kisses linger a bit longer than usual. The two of you are still tangled together on your bed—your sweaty bodies still cooling, and your over-extended muscles still aching. He’d asked you to ride him tonight, and you’re still laying atop him, your head resting on his chest. When you speak, you sit up, your hands braced against him, and meet his eyes.

“Mary, when you disappear for weeks… where do you go?”

Immediately, his expression becomes guarded. His hands, which had been stroking softly at your thighs, come to a halt. 

“...Nowhere.”

“Then why do you have to leave?” You tilt your head to one side, your brows knitting in concern.

“...Because.”

“Because why?”

Suddenly, he rolls over you, boxing you underneath him and pinning your wrists to the mattress. His eyes are intent upon yours, his expression twisting into a dangerous, furious glare.

“Why are you asking so many fuckin’ questions?”

“Why are you being so evasive?”

“ _Because!_ ” With an enraged snarl, he pushes away from you and rolls off the bed. In one motion, he snatches up his jeans from the floor, stuffs one leg and then the other into them, and stumbles a little as he yanks them up. With his back turned towards you, he does up the fly and buckles the belt.

“...Mary.”

With a shake of his head, he plants his hands on his hips and slowly turns back towards you, pushing his sweat-damp hair from his face. Propped up on one hand, you simply gaze at him with confused, pleading eyes, hoping to appeal to that softer side you know he keeps buried deep. For a long moment, he just stares at you, opening and then closing his mouth several times as he wages an internal war. Eventually, he heaves a half-growled sigh of exasperation and comes to sit on the edge of the bed beside you.

“Okay, you wanna know where I fuckin’ go? I’ll show you.” He reaches out and grabs your chin, pulling you closer. “But _I_ am in charge tonight, got it? If I say run, you run. If I say hide, you fuckin’ hide. If I say don’t move, you don’t. Fuckin’. _Move_. Understand?”

Brow knitting a little in concern, you nod. 

“Get dressed. Warmly.”

With his thumb and index finger on your chin, he guides your lips to his in a rough kiss. For a moment, you think he’s going to try and distract you to get out of this. You prepare yourself to resist his charms, but he doesn’t use them. Instead, he breaks the kiss and jerks away so suddenly that it startles you. Wordlessly, he collects his clothes and gets dressed with his back turned. It’s unusual for him—he normally likes to touch himself while he watches you dress or undress, but now he can’t seem to look at you. The pair of you change in complete silence, which does nothing to calm your nerves. Anxiety gnaws at the pit of your stomach as he finally turns to you, nodding approvingly at the outfit you chose.

“You got any sort of weapons? Something small or concealable. Taser, mace, that fuckin’... spiky cat-ear keychain thing?”

You blink at him, dumbfounded and beginning to panic. “N-No.”

“Fuckin’ figures.” He heaves a sigh, plants his foot on the edge of your bed, and withdraws from his boot a black-handled switchblade, which he presses into your palm. “Keep this close, all right?”

A tiny shiver washes through you as your fingers curl around the blade. “Okay.”

“Leave everything else. Keys, cell phone, wallet. You won’t need them.” Mary watches as you hurriedly divest yourself of these items. “All right, come on. First stop is the bar.”

“The bar?”

With his hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket, he leaves your room and walks out the front door of your apartment without breaking his stride. You scurry after him, needing to take two steps for each of his. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t look at you—it’s as if you’re invisible. You’re beginning to wonder if this is such a good idea.

“Why are we going to a bar?” you finally work up the courage to ask as the pair of you set out from your building and into the rain-slicked night.

“You’ll see.” Mary glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “Just stay close, okay? No fuckin’ tellin’ what could happen.”

Frowning, you hurry to keep in step with him. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him outside of your apartment before. It’s a little jarring, really. The red from his face is mostly gone now—sweated off during the earlier activities—but he’s still pale and gaunt and strangely beautiful. The neon lights of the city throw odd shadows across his face, collecting in the sunken parts like water in your hand. He doesn’t seem to notice you staring. Whatever it is that he’s planning seems to have captured his attention entirely.

When you both arrive at the dive bar a few blocks down from your apartment, he slips in without hesitation, and you follow. The interior is shabby and mostly empty this late at night, with only a small handful of barflies mingling around. They barely even look up as Mary enters. He takes a spot by the bar, and you slide onto the stool beside him. 

One of the barflies—a skinny, grimy man with a scraggly white beard and several tattoos painting his wiry bare arms—stares at you from his booth, his dark eyes roaming your figure, and you suppress a shudder of revulsion.

“Two IPAs,” mutters Mary to the bartender, and he casts a sidelong glance at you as he slaps some bills onto the table. His voice is quiet, barely audible over the buzzing of the fluorescent lights. “Not exactly your kind of place, is it?”

“No, it really isn’t.”

The bartender passes him two barely-cold bottles, and Mary wordlessly pushes one towards you.

“I don’t want to be drunk here, Mary.” You turn your back on the barfly staring at you, but you can still feel his eyes, boring into you. Despite your reluctance to partake, your fingers curl around the bottle, but not with the intent to drink it.

“I ain’t gonna let anything happen to you, baby.” He meets your gaze, his expression somber and intense. “And I’m sorry that you’re gonna see some shit that you don’t wanna fuckin’ see.” 

For a moment, his eyes are pained, sorrowful—the saddest eyes you’ve ever seen him give you. And in a heartbeat, they’re hard and steely again, as if he’s never even felt any emotion besides rage. His voice has an edge to it as he speaks again.

“Here he comes… don’t move.”

The barfly’s stench precedes him—stale piss and cheap beer and cigarette smoke. You recoil in fear and disgust as he slams a hand down onto the bar beside you. With a growling sigh, he leans in closer and chuckles drunkenly in your ear. 

Mary’s grip on his beer becomes white-knuckled as he lifts it to his lips.

“Hey there, sweetheart. Mm, I can practically smell that delicious little puss from here.” The barfly makes a show of inhaling close to you, wafting a hand near his nostrils, and another nasty, wheezing chuckle escapes him. “How’s about we ditch the twink here and I show you a _real_ good time?” With a smile that makes your skin crawl, he reaches out towards your hair.

But Mary is stupid fast.

Before anyone can react, Mary reaches across you and latches onto the barfly’s wrist, halting his movements immediately. His eyes are flashing with rage, and his face is twisted into a furious snarl. The barfly wrenches his arm free of Mary’s grasp with a confused grunt, scowling. In the same moment, Mary gets to his feet, stepping around you to insinuate himself between you and your aggressor. Despite the evident rage building under the surface, his voice is calm and even.

“Keep your fuckin’ hands to yourself, asshole.”

“Hey, mind your fucking business, you little shit, I’m tryin’ to get —” The barfly reaches towards you again, his intent obvious. Mistake number one.

So swiftly you can barely see it, Mary’s fist connects with a sickening crunch to the barfly’s nose. Blood spurts red and thick, and the barfly recoils in pain, knocking into the tables and clutching at his ruined nose, sputtering and howling like a wounded animal. Mary reaches out, grabs a fistful of his hair, and yanks him roughly closer.

“I _thought_ I said to keep your fuckin’ hands to yourself,” snarls Mary, and he slams the barfly’s face into the bar so hard the wood shudders. Hand still attached to his scalp, Mary lifts the barfly’s head and slams it _again_. Empty bottles clink against one another and topple over. You reflexively recoil from the blood that splatters across the bar’s surface. Mary leans over his victim, wrenching his head up to look him in the face.

“Have we learned our lesson?”

With a pained groan, the barfly grits his teeth and spits more blood onto the bar. “Fuck… you.”

“ _Wrong answer.”_

Mary’s knee jerks upright into the barfly’s stomach—once, twice, three times. With a ragged grunt of pain, the barfly collapses to the grimy tile and lays there. His breath comes in shallow, wet gasps, and he writhes on the floor in agony, blood pouring from his ruined face. As Mary reaches for him again, the bartender finally speaks up.

“Hey! Take it the fuck outside, shithead, or I’m gonna call the cops.”

“Oh, okay!” Mary’s voice is oddly cheerful given the circumstances, and he flashes a menacing, unfriendly smile. “We’ll take it outside, won’t we, _pal?”_ He leans down, wrenches the barfly to his feet, and shoves him roughly towards the door.

Muttering apologies under your breath, you scurry after him, and in the few seconds that takes you, Mary and the barfly have disappeared. You cast your eyes up and down the sidewalk, your vision blurring in the mist. Sudden fear lances through your chest at the sound of angry scuffling nearby. Following the noise, you turn the corner into an alleyway just in time to see two of the barfly’s punches connect with Mary’s jaw.

While Mary reels from the blows, wiping blood from his split lip, the barfly lunges and shoves him back against the wall of the alley. His bony hands wrap around Mary’s slender throat and squeeze. Panic rises in your chest as Mary’s face swiftly begins to turn purple, but you can’t seem to move.

“When I’m done beating the shit out of you, I’ll go back to that sweet little piece of pussy you brought to the bar,” rasps the barfly, lip curling into a sinister grin, “and spend the rest of the night _playing._ Pretty thing like that… bet I can make ‘em squeal _real_ good.”

The barfly leans in closer in his arrogance, which proves to be a fatal mistake. With a snarl unlike anything you’ve ever heard, Mary lunges and sinks his teeth into the barfly’s throat. Blood gushes and spurts from the wound, and the barfly _screams_ in agony as Mary jerks his head back, taking a chunk of glistening flesh with him. Immediately, the barfly collapses, hands flying to his torn throat as he gurgles and writhes. 

Mary stands over him—his back to you—breathing hard, and spits the hunk of flesh onto the ground. With a cough, he brings his hands up to massage his bruised throat and crouches. He reaches for the bowie knife at the small of his back. In a sort of numb horror, you watch as he raises the blade high, the edge of it glinting in the neon of a nearby sign, and plunges it into the barfly’s chest. The sickening slice of metal into flesh makes your stomach lurch. He does it again. And again. And again until the barfly stops moving.

Your head swims. You had your suspicions that Mary was dangerous, but not _this_ dangerous. How could this be the same loveable urchin that complained about your favorite bands and ate all your chips? The one who kissed you so sweetly that your heart ached and slept with his nose buried in your hair? 

A quiet sob escapes you before you can stop it.

Mary’s head snaps up. He twists to see you standing there, and his eyes widen. It’s obvious that in his zeal, he’s forgotten all about you. Slowly, he slides the knife back into its holster, and draws himself up to his full height. Fresh, glistening blood stains his mouth and the front of his shirt, and the sight of it has your stomach clenching uncomfortably. As if approaching a skittish animal, he takes a step forward, palms out in a peaceful, calming gesture. 

You can’t seem to move.

“...Fuck. Baby. I never wanted you to see... this.” He gives you a tortured, beseeching look. “Please, l-let me explain.”

He takes another step forward.

You turn and run.

Distantly, you hear him call for you, but your legs only pump faster. For the first time in a long time, you are _terrified_ of Mary Goore. As you run, you replay the entirety of the fight in your mind, and hot tears begin to spill out and blur your vision. You aren’t sure, exactly, where your feet are taking you, but you’re going to get there as fast as you can. When your legs begin to ache and you have no more tears to shed and there’s a stitch in your side that makes breathing painful, you come to a stop, and you find yourself outside a quiet, foggy cemetery. Inside, the street lamps spill cool, white light into the mist that also refracts and gives the gravestones a slight, ethereal glow. It is utterly devoid of life, which is really want you need right now.

You cast a glance up and down the street, searching for any figures in the fog. Once you’re satisfied that you’re alone, you push open the gate just enough to slip through the opening. Alone amongst the headstones, you hug yourself tight, repress a shiver, and start following the little path that winds through the cemetery. The soft, gentle splashing of the fountain is the only sound. Inside your head, you wage an internal war.

How could you have been so stupid? You let a strange man— _possibly some kind of a demon—_ into your life, just because he was kind of cute? Just because he was funny and sexy and unexpectedly sweet and—

With a frustrated sigh, you lean against the wall of a small mausoleum, tipping your head back and looking at the sky. All right, so you’re head over heels for the guy—does that really excuse what he did? Then again, that bastard at the bar _was_ an irredeemable piece of shit who would’ve gladly hurt you had Mary not come to your defense. It’s likely he’d hurt other people the same way he’d planned on hurting you. Indecision gnaws at you. On the one hand, you’re pretty sure that was one of the scariest things you’ve ever witnessed in your entire life. On the other, if Mary intended to do you real harm, he’s had ample opportunities. Tears of frustration and fear well up in your eyes, and you crumple, sliding down the mausoleum wall until you’re seated on the cold, damp loam.

How long you sit like that—curled in on yourself, sobbing—you’re not quite sure. Minutes bleed into hours, and the tears seem to be endless.

“...Please don’t cry anymore.”

Your head snaps up, and you let out a startled gasp at the sound of a quiet voice.

Several feet away from where you sit, with mist swirling around him, stands Mary Goore. The blood from the barfly is beginning to dry a little, but the stain of it on his face and clothes remains. He doesn’t approach or even move, really, except for the rise and fall of his chest. He simply stands there, hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket, his expression nothing short of agonized.

“My stupid ass sure as shit ain’t worth cryin’ over, baby.” Anxiously, he scratches at the back of his head. “If you don’t wanna ever fuckin’ see me again, I understand—I do. But please. _Please_ stop cryin’.”

Hastily, you wipe your wet cheeks with your hand, and scramble to your feet. He doesn’t come any closer. He waits, as always, for your permission.

“So… that’s the kind of stuff you do when you leave? You _kill_ people?” Your voice trembles a little as you speak.

“Mostly?” Mary nods, grimacing, and momentarily averts his gaze. “Yeah. But only evil people—real fuckin’ scumbags like pedos and rapists and bigots… shit like that. _Never_ an innocent.” He swallows, his brows knitting. “Never you.”

“Why, Mary? Why do you do it at all?”

Hands still stuffed in his pockets, Mary shrugs and looks down at the dirt, his mouth open and his expression genuinely uncertain. For a moment, he looks around, seemingly searching for some kind of satisfactory answer. When none come to him, he gives his head a shake, heaves a sigh, and looks at you.

“I don’t fuckin’ know, it’s like a compulsion. Like…” He frowns and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I can hear ‘em, if that makes _any_ fuckin’ sense? Their thoughts, their… evil? Like a song I can’t get outta my head.” He shrugs one shoulder. “No matter how far away I am from ‘em.”

“...All the time?” Frowning, you think back to those times he’d been with you, all the things you’d done together.

“...It’s a lot quieter with you.” He shuffles a half step closer, clearly wanting to be nearer, but he stops himself with a grimace. “It doesn’t stay quiet, though, and that’s why I gotta leave you sometimes.” He takes a deep breath. “But I-I promise… no matter how long I’m away, I’ll always come back.”

“You will?”

“If you want me to.” There’s such a sincerity to his gaze, open and raw and genuine, that your heart lurches a little. 

You swallow, studying him for a moment, contemplating. 

“Of course I want you to. Always.”

In a few short strides, you close the distance and practically throw yourself into his arms. Immediately, he returns your embrace, burying his face in the crook of your neck and holding you tight to his chest. You don’t even care that he’s sticky with drying blood or that he’s holding you too tight. You slip your arms underneath his jacket, desperate for more of his warmth, and rest your cheek on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into your neck. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry you saw that, baby. I never fuckin’ wanted you to see it and I never meant—” He cuts himself off with a shuddering sigh, and squeezes you tighter.

You lift your head a little to look him in the eyes, and brush your fingers lightly against his jaw. Mary’s own hand rests on yours, lacing your fingers together. He turns his head to press a soft kiss to your palm, his pained gaze holding yours. 

Fuck, but he’s pretty. And sweet. You lift up on your toes to kiss him, your mouth crashing into his like an ocean wave on the rocks, and your arms coming around his neck to yank him closer. He grunts in surprise, but collects himself quickly, and his arm tightens around your waist. Suddenly, he’s grabbing at you anywhere he can reach, and when your lips part in invitation, his tongue slides into your mouth with a sigh. The taste of him is coppery and salty, and you hate to admit that you like it, _just a little_. Without breaking the kiss, you tug him insistently by his belt, stumbling backwards towards the mausoleum, and he follows without hesitation.

The pair of you make your way into the open mausoleum, tripping over one another in your haste. Mary’s fingers fumble with the tie of his flannel, laying it on top of the stone tomb in the center of the tiny space. With frankly arousing ease, he hefts you and slides your ass onto the stone. You wriggle, trying to situate yourself, but his hand slips between your legs before you can get too far. A quiet moan escapes you as he presses his palm against the seam of your jeans.

“Mm, fuck, baby… you get me riled like nothin’ else.” He mouths at your neck and shoulder, rumbling with pleasure as you rock your hips against his hand. “How’s about I make you come on these fingers, sweetness?” Firmly, he presses his finger against where your clit would be, smirking when you cry out in surprise.

“Yes, yes, yes, _please.”_ Suddenly every nerve in your skin is on _fire_ with need. The adrenaline from the night’s activities have you twitchy and desperate.

With surprising dexterity, he unbuttons the fly of your jeans, and his fingers begin to wriggle into your panties. Abruptly, he goes still. You blink, confused, and follow his irritated gaze to his hands, which are smeared with dried blood and what looks like fresh dirt is caked beneath his nails. He grimaces at the sight of them, and meets your gaze.

“Shit.”

“It’s okay, we can—”

“No no no, you shut your beautiful, adorable face.” He puts his other hand over your mouth to silence you, and a contemplative look crosses his features. “Two seconds.” 

With a swift peck to your nose, he turns and jogs out of sight. The gravel crunches, steadily getting softer, and then there’s some splashing. A hiss of discomfort and a quiet _shitfuck, that’s fuckin’ cold_ reaches your ears. Smirking, you lean back on your palms, and Mary returns to you moments later, shaking water off his now clean hands.

“Here we fuckin’ go,” he murmurs as he sidles between your knees, and wiggles his fingertips at the waistband of your panties.

“AH! _Cold!_ Cold hands!!” You squeal, grabbing his wrist reflexively as he works his hand between your legs. Gasping in shock, you jerk and twitch and hiss at the icy sting of his fingers on your heated skin, burying your face into his shoulder while he soldiers on.

“I’m gonna heat ‘em up real fast, just you wait.” The chuckle that escapes him quickly becomes a growling moan. “Mm, you’re already fuckin’ wet, baby. Guess cold hands ain’t so bad, huh?”

He mouths a trail of soft kisses at your neck while his fingers trace your folds. He’s right—his hands did heat up _really_ fast. His fingertip circles your clit, and you moan, rolling your hips in time with his movements. Normally, he goes almost _too_ fast—like getting you off is some kind of race—but now he seems content to draw it out as long as possible. With a hum, Mary nips gently at your neck, presses the pad of his finger against your clit, and holds it there.

You whine in distress, trying to rock your hips to get some sort of friction, but his other hand seizes onto your waist, keeping you still.

“Easy, sweet cheeks,” he rumbles, and you can feel him grin against your neck. “I’m gonna take care of you like I fuckin’ always do.”

“Mary… _please._ Please, I need—”

“I know, babydoll, I know.” 

His voice is low and rough in your ear, and when you think you’re going to go _crazy_ with desire, he moves his fingers, the tempo of them steadily picking up speed. When he slides his index finger into your waiting hole, you cry out, and he swallows the sound with a kiss. When you clench around him, he grunts out a rough moan of his own against your lips and adds another finger to the first. He pumps them in and out, in and out, curling them upwards, gradually moving faster until you’re writhing and clinging to him. All at once, you feel that glorious precipice drawing nearer.

“Mary, I’m gonna—don’t stop, please, just like that.” Your hand overlaps his, grinding his fingers against your pussy in desperation. He swipes his thumb across your tingling clit, and this is the last little push you need. With a shuddering whimper, you finally come, your cunt clenching around his fingers.

“Fuck, baby, I fuckin’ love you.” He whispers the words into your ear and then bites down on that juncture between your neck and shoulder, sucking hard at the spot that will most certainly purple later.

Breathing hard, you come down slowly from that heady apex, becoming aware of the cool night air chilling your exposed skin and the rough stone beneath your ass. Mary bumps his forehead gently against yours, and withdraws his hand from your slickness. Smirking, he brings his fingers to his mouth, and licks them clean. When he leans in to kiss you, soft and slow, his hand tangles in your hair at the back of your neck.

Suddenly, the words he’d whispered in your ear dawn on you, and your eyes widen as you lean back to look him in the face.

“You—? You said you—?”

“I know what I said.” Mary’s intense eyes lock with yours, effectively silencing any further protestations. Like a gentleman, he zips up your pants and buttons them, and gives your thigh a light slap. “Let’s get you back home, okay?” 

“Mary…”

“C’mon.” 

As you scoot off the stone tomb, he snatches up his flannel, ties it around his waist, and then slings an arm around your shoulders. Sighing, he leads you from the mausoleum and then out the cemetery gates. The pair of you set out at a brisk pace, cutting through the fog like fish through water, making your way back to the apartment. 

He doesn’t talk, but he keeps glancing at you nervously out of the corner of his eye.

You let him keep to his silence. If he doesn’t want to admit to what he said, you’re not going to force him. You’ll just have to wait until _he’s_ mid-nut to confess some things to him. You blow out a sigh and lean your head against his shoulder as you walk. Humming, you reach around behind him, and slide your hand into his back pocket.

“Mary, Mary, quite contrary…” You smirk up at him, your hand squeezing his ass. “How _does_ your garden grow?”

“Original.” He shoots you an unimpressed glower. “You’re lucky you’re so fuckin’ cute.”

 _He’s right,_ you think to yourself, as he leans over and presses a kiss to your temple. _I am lucky._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note—this chapter contains an unpleasant assault (non-sexual) of the reader character right at the beginning. If that sort of thing makes you uncomfortable, please skip this one!

Sometimes, when it’s late at night and Mary’s absence is beginning to really hurt, sleep becomes elusive. You miss his arms around your waist and his nose buried in your hair and his gentle, rumbling snore. The last time, he’d begrudgingly left you his tanktop—literally pulled it off his back and handed it to you before kissing you goodbye—and you’ve taken to wearing it to bed. The musky scent that clings to it helps, but sometimes not even that can soothe you.

With the switchblade he’d given you clutched tightly in your hand, stuffed in the pocket of your jacket, you’d started taking to nightly walks just for something to do. Mostly, you’ve gone unbothered—the worst that’s ever happened has been people sometimes shouting things at you from across the street but you pay them no mind.

Tonight is different.

With heavy metal blasting through your headphones, you don’t take notice of the three men that have been following you for a few blocks now. In the foggy, dark streets, they blend right in with the shadows. When you make a quick stop in a late-night drugstore for some snacks and a pack of gum, they’re waiting for you. 

You cross the street and cut through an abandoned lot on your way back home. You don’t notice them drawing ever closer until it’s too late.

“Hey there, sweet thing.” 

Suddenly, one of them grabs your arm and yanks you sharply backward. With a surprised yelp, you’re twisted in place to look your aggressors in the eye. They press towards you on all sides and you shuffle away until your back hits the brick wall of the convenience store.

_Oh no._

“What’re you doin’ out here so late at night?” purrs the one that had grabbed you, leaning in closer. A predatory smile curves his lip, and the stench of alcohol clings to his breath.

“Damn, are you fuckin’ stupid or somethin’?”

A nasty chuckle rises from the trio. Swallowing hard, you avert your eyes, mumble something about wanting to leave, and try to sidle past the cage of men surrounding you.

“Hang on, now, where you goin’?” One of them pushes you roughly back against the brick wall and keeps his hand on your chest. He steps closer, his head cocking to one side. “Can we bum a couple of bucks off ya? Just enough to get a cab, honey—we’ll pay you back tomorrow.” 

“Please, I don’t want any trouble.”

“Well, that’s really too bad. ‘Cause I think trouble just found you.”

Suddenly, the hand on your chest rises to wrap around your throat. You try to push it away, but you are quickly overwhelmed. Before you know what’s happening, three pairs of hands are on you, pulling and wrenching and wrestling you to the ground. You try to fight them off—even managing to get in some punches of your own—but they easily overpower you. In the pandemonium, you completely forget about the switchblade. One of your attackers tangles their foot with yours, pitching you forward, and you hit the pavement _hard._ Your knee throbs with pain as a hand wrenches your arms behind your back and hold them there. A whimper of fear rises in your throat as a knee presses firmly against the middle of your back. Before you can get out an actual yell, however, a hand slaps over your mouth.

“Now, now, now. Don’t wanna go causing a fuss, do ya?” snarls one of the men, and hands begin searching your pockets for your valuables.

“Shit, I can’t find their fuckin’ wallet.”

“Keep diggin’, I know they got one—they used it inside the store.”

“Oh, lookie here, they was carryin’ a _knife._ ” One of the men fishes the switchblade from your pocket and holds it up. With a flick of his wrist, the blade flashes out. “Too bad you didn’t think to use it, dipshit.”

As you squirm fruitlessly against their hold, your attackers merely laugh and continue searching your pockets. But their laughter doesn’t last. The weight on your back abruptly vanishes with a strangled yell. In the blink of an eye, things are in chaos. You find yourself suddenly free of your man-made cage, and a familiar voice is whispering in your ear.

“Close your eyes, baby.”

Immediately, you squeeze your eyes tightly shut, and put your hands over your ears. A sob wrenches itself from your chest as you curl onto your side. Despite your hands clamped tight over your ears, the sounds are impossible to block out—scuffling, panicked yelling, agonized screams of pain, and the unmistakable sound of a metal blade slicing flesh. Slowly, the sounds recede, and silence takes their place.

You don’t move. You _can’t._ Curled into a tight ball, you’re trying desperately to escape your own body when a hand gently touches your shoulder and brings you crashing back to the earth. Slowly, you open your eyes to see Mary crouched in front of you, drenched in fresh blood from head to toe. His eyebrows are knit into a positively _furious_ glare, and a muscle in his jaw jumps as he looks at you. 

You pretend like you don’t see the dark shapes laying motionless on the pavement behind him.

Hiccuping with sobs, you lurch into his bloody embrace and bury your face into his neck. His arms wrap automatically around you, squeezing you tightly against him. For a short time, he silently holds you, and you feel him tremble a little in your arms. Whether it’s from fear or rage is a mystery.

Then he’s pulling away, and you see only the rage in his eyes.

“We gotta go. Can you walk?”

It hurts—your injured leg trembles a little as he pulls you upright—but you manage. Gingerly, you lean your weight on him, he wraps an arm around your waist, and guides you from the abandoned lot. It’s slow going; the scrape on your knee has bled through your jeans by now and putting weight on that leg is almost impossible. Your whole body _aches_ from the bruises blossoming beneath your clothes. Mary remains utterly silent the whole walk back to your apartment, his expression one of barely-contained rage, but he never tries to push you faster than you’re comfortable going. 

You can’t shake the feeling that he’s angry at _you_.

When you finally arrive back at your apartment, you press your keys into Mary’s palm and lean against the wall while he fumbles with them. Your leg _throbs_ in agony, you feel exhausted beyond description, and a quiet sob escapes your lips before you can stop it.

Mary flashes you a look, his eyes nothing short of murderous, and you shrink back a little. He really _is_ angry at you. Tears well up in your eyes, but you swipe them away before they fall, and avert your gaze.

When he finally gets the door unlocked, he wordlessly sweeps you up into his arms, lifts you off your feet, and cradles you against his chest bridal-style. Under normal circumstances, you’d be thrilled and a little turned on by his manhandling, but now you just feel ashamed. 

Kicking the door shut behind him, Mary carries you to the bathroom, sits you on the counter, and crouches to inspect your bloodied knee. One of his hands rests on your thigh, holding you still as he attempts to see the scrape through the fraying bits around the hole.

“The jeans are ruined, right?”

“I think—”

Without waiting for your permission, he grasps the jeans and yanks, ripping the blood-stained hole bigger. After studying your wound for a moment, he straightens, turns to your medicine cabinet and begins rifling through it. Silently, he collects the things necessary to clean and dress your wound, dumps them on the counter besides you, and turns the faucet on to warm. He finds a clean rag, douses in the soapy water, and wrings out the excess. He kneels and begins dabbing at the wound lightly.

You hiss in pain and flinch; he merely squeezes your knee tighter to keep you in place. 

The silence is becoming deafening. You wish he’d say something, even if it’s to yell at you for being so stupid, but he remains utterly mute. As he works, the muscle in his jaw jumps. Tears of shame well up in your eyes and this time, you don’t bother to wipe them away. Silently, you let them flow, eyes closed.

When he’s finished cleaning the debris from the scrape, he helps you ease out of the ruined jeans so he can bandage the wound properly. You want his hands to linger on your skin, tender and soft, like they had so many times before, but he’s singularly focused on his task. His motions are mechanical, clinical, and without a hint of that secret softness you’ve come to love about him. He tosses the ruined jeans to the floor, props you back onto the counter, and returns to his work without a word.

You can’t fucking _stand_ it anymore.

“...Mary?”

Pausing in applying a bandage to your leg, he meets your gaze, the raw anger in his eyes like storm clouds thundering on the horizon. When he takes in the tears flowing freely down your cheeks, however, his big, beautiful eyes widen a fraction. The anger slides off his face in an instant, replaced immediately with concern. He straightens and brings his hand up to cup your cheek.

“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

In the tiniest, saddest voice ever, you finally manage to half-sob out the question burning in your mind since he’d come to your rescue.

“Are you mad at me?”

 _“What?”_ His brow knits in confusion. “No! No, baby! Why would think—?” Sudden understanding dawns on his features. “Aw, fuck, I’m so stupid…” Gingerly, he pulls you into his arms, burying your face into the crook of his neck while you sob and cling to him. “I’m not fuckin’ mad at you. I could _never_ be mad at you.”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” you blubber, squeezing him as tight as you can. “I’m sorry, I had the switchblade in my pocket and I didn’t—”

“Shhh,” soothes Mary, his hand moving along your back in calming circles. “I ain’t mad at you, okay? I’m… fuckin’ pissed at those pieces of shit that _hurt_ you. Pissed is the smallest fuckin’ word for what I am.” Bumping his forehead gently against yours, he lifts a hand to cup your jaw, and swipes his thumb across your cheek to wipe away your tears.

“I wanted to rip them limb from fuckin’ limb and _eat_ the fuckin’ pieces.” His teeth grit around his words, and his eyes flash again with that terrifying rage. “I wanted to fuckin’ flay them alive and leave them there to fuckin’ suffer. I wanna go back right fuckin’ now and _piss_ on their corpses.” 

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Mary momentarily squeezes shut his eyes, and the rage dissolves away like salt in water. When he opens his eyes again, they’re pained and fraught with fear.

“I coulda _lost_ you.”

Suddenly, his lips are on yours, kissing you with a sort of gentle ferocity while his fingers tangle in your hair. The act of bandaging your knee is hastily forgotten. Sobbing against his mouth in relief, you reciprocate, your arms snaking around his neck to pull him closer. The kiss continues on, growing steadily more heated, and your sobs turn quickly into soft moans and sighs. Mary’s hands slide up your bare thighs and slip beneath the hem of your shirt, greedily clutching at your waist and hips. Your skin feels like it’s on _fire_ with need, and his touch is doing nothing to cool that flame.

“...W-Wait,” he whispers, pulling away reluctantly. “Hold on.” He turns away, yanks back the shower curtain, and turns on the hot water. The shower sputters to life, and steam begins to fill the bathroom.

Kicking shut the door in his haste, he returns to you, mouth crashing into yours with desperation, and struggles to shrug out of his leather jacket. Even with you pushing it from his shoulders, his arm gets momentarily trapped and he flaps it, fruitlessly attempting to free himself. With a growl of frustration, Mary pulls back to fully divest himself of the offending jacket, letting it hit the ground with a rattling thud. Eager now, his arms encircle you gingerly, pulling you deep into his embrace.

Clothing is shed slowly and methodically, and each piece of skin is savored. Mary’s eyes take in the bruises peppering you now, a muscle in his jaw jumping as his fingers trail over each one.

“I’m okay now,” you murmur, pushing his dark hair from his eyes, attempting to get him to look at your face. “I’m okay.”

“It was like a fuckin’ beacon in my brain,” he whispers, his voice rough. His eyebrows furrow, and the rage starts to rise again. “And the next thing I knew, I was there and—”

“Just shut up, Mary. Please, just. Shut up and fuck me.” 

You don’t want to think about what he’d done to those men, even if they had deserved it. You need to _forget._ You need _him_ , just him—the taste of him, the press of his weight against you, the feel of him outside and inside you—to wash away those memories and replace them with something new. 

Wordlessly, he crosses his arms and shucks off his shirt in one movement, dropping it carelessly to the ground. He reaches for you, drawing your lips to his, and you snake an arm around his neck to yank him closer in your impatience.

The bathroom mirror is quickly fogging up and your shirt is sticking to your skin with the condensation. The rest of your clothing and his is quickly lost in the haze, and he helps ease you into the shower. With the hot water cascading over both of you, Mary draws you into his embrace, kissing you slow and tender and soft until you feel weak in the knees. That ember of arousal is quickly fanned into a flame as his hands roam your slick body, caressing and squeezing. For a few tender moments, he simply kisses and fondles you, sighing with pleasure when your hands bury themselves in his hair.

When you’re both thoroughly soaked and warm and pliant, he pulls back a little to rest his forehead on yours. Those gorgeous eyes of his are hooded and dark with desire as they hold your gaze.

“Hold on to that thought, sweetness. Lemme clean you up before I get you fuckin’ filthy, yeah?” Mary flashes that lopsided grin again, his hands sliding across your skin and squeezing at your waist. “Turn around.”

As you turn, he reaches for your bottle of shampoo, pours a considerable amount into his cupped hand, and works it between his palms. You tilt your head back, and his fingers begin to massage the rich lather into your scalp. A contented, pleasured sigh escapes your lips and you sag a little under his ministrations, leaning back as his fingers work through your hair. You can feel his cock, already hard and ready for you, slipping deliciously against the curve of your ass.

“Mary…”

“Mm, baby, you're so fuckin' _soft_ ,” he murmurs, his fingers in your hair slowing down. Attention diverted now, his soapy hands slide from your head to grasp firmly at your hips. As he grinds slowly against your backside, he brings his mouth to your shoulder, and a hand curves around to cup your pussy.

“There’s still shampoo in my hair.” You laugh lightly, but it transforms into a moan as he presses a finger against your clit.

“Ah, shit. You’re fuckin’ _distracting._ ” His tone is accusatory as he pulls his fingers away.

“I’m sorry.” Another breathy laugh escapes you. 

Humming, he gives your neck a gentle nip, and angles down the showerhead to rinse your hair. His cock is still grinding lightly against the curve of your ass—a situation you only exacerbate as you lean back into the spray of water. He supports your weight with his body, allowing your back to rest flush against his chest as you rinse, but his hands are free to _wander_. They slide up your body to palm your tits, massaging and squeezing them until you moan. Gently, he tweaks a nipple and he chuckles at your little gasp. For longer than is entirely necessary, you let him play with you, leaning your head back against his shoulder. Quietly, he groans in your ear, and one hand slides down your stomach to your pussy again.

But you don’t want it to be over that soon.

“Okay, your turn.” Though it takes a considerable exertion of willpower to stop him from taking you then and there, you turn around in his embrace, and pick up your bottle of shampoo.

Clearly disgruntled for being interrupted, he shoots you a glower, but allows you to work your lathered hands through his hair. His eyelids droop a little as you massage his scalp, even as his hands slide down to your ass and squeeze.

“You look sexy with your hair pushed back.” To demonstrate your point, you push the long, wet devil lock out of his face, slicking it back with the rest of his hair. “Now I can see those pretty eyes of yours.”

“ _Pretty?”_ He scowls, but there’s a slight flush rising to his cheeks that has nothing to do with the heat of the shower. “You go blind or something? I ain’t pretty.”

“Yes, you are.” Your fingers work gently at his hair, rinsing away the suds beneath the spray of water. “You’re _very_ pretty.”

“Shut up.” His face is cherry red now, and his expression hovers somewhere between irritated and bashful.

“You saved my life tonight, Mary—let me call you pretty.” You draw his lips down to yours and kiss him, humming out a sigh as his tongue slides into your mouth.

The rest of the shower’s actual purposes are quickly forgotten. He turns you to the side, pressing your back against the slick wall, and hefts your leg into the crook of his arm. After so long of this teasing, he’s reached the end of his proverbial tether. His stiff cock slips against your lips as he ruts mindlessly against you, desperate for friction. Murmuring encouragements, you reach down to guide him properly. With one thrust, he sinks into you to the hilt, groaning out your name through clenched teeth.

“Fuck, baby, that pussy feels _so fuckin’ good_ ,” he growls, and sinks his teeth into your neck. “Gonna bust a nut all up in there. You stay just like that, just like—nng, fuck...”

With your one leg slung over his forearm, you throw your arms around his neck for balance as he fucks you hard and fast and brutal, just like always—even as his hands are gentle on your body so he doesn’t press too hard on your bruises. He’s panting in your ear, growling out clipped words of praise between his moans. It isn’t long before you find yourself rapidly approaching the edge, and you whine as your climax remains tantalizingly just out of reach.

“Mary, I’m so close, _please,_ I—“

Wordlessly, he slides a hand down to your pussy, fingertips tracing clumsy but effective circles around your clit in time with the pace of his thrusts. With a trembling moan of relief, your climax washes over you like the cooling water from the shower head—comforting and wet and utterly delicious. Your pussy clenches tight around him and he shudders.

“So fuckin’ gorgeous when you come on my cock, babydoll,” he groans, and he brings his lips close to yours. His eyes are almost _black_. “Do it again. Once more for me, sweet thing, c’mon. Be good for me.”

With a moan, his fingers pick up speed on your clit and you cry out, your nails clawing desperately at the meat of his back muscles. Whispering praise in your ear, Mary alternates between shallowly thrusting in and out and stroking your clit until you’re a needy, whimpering mess. Your thigh is beginning to ache from this position, but he doesn’t relent until he ekes out another orgasm from your pussy. This time, when you clench _hard_ around him, he gives a shuddering, tortured moan, and buries his face into the crook of your neck. He grunts quietly as his cock kicks inside you, spurting hot cum with each little pulse. 

Sighing contentedly, Mary slips out of you and lowers your leg. As a trickle runs down your thigh, he mouths soft, sweet kisses to the bite marks he’d left on your skin, his hands caressing your wet body. Humming you lean your forehead on his shoulder.

“Mm, I love you.”

These half-whispered words leave your mouth before you can stop them, and you stiffen a little in fear. You had meant to draw this particular confession out a little, but you couldn’t help it—you were so overcome with affection that it quite literally slipped out. Quietly, he chuckles, turning his head to nuzzle tenderly at your pulse point while his hands squeeze your waist and hips.

“I know, baby. Ditto.”


	4. Chapter 4

So things are kind of fucking weird for you right now.

Out of sheer morbid curiosity, you accidentally invited some kind of supernatural entity into your life. You’re unclear on what he is, exactly. Is he a ghost? Is he a vampire? You’re just not sure. Luckily for you, he decided _not_ to gut you the second he met you, and instead, he’s become your… sort of boyfriend? Sure, he practices five-finger fillet on your table and he has some elitist opinions about metal and he hunts evil people for sport, but you love your scary Mary Goore.

Plus, sex with him is unlike anything you've ever experienced. He’s somehow both sweet and animalistic—every fuck leaves you exhausted and your skin is a minefield of bite marks and your legs ache for a few days afterward, but he kisses you like he might die without your lips and sleeps with his face pressed against your throat (to smell you better, he says).

So that's definitely a bonus.

However, it occurs to you that in the months since he’s become a regular fixture in your life, the two of you have yet to go on an actual _date._ The last couple of times you’ve even seen him outside your apartment couldn't be considered romantic outings. 

There’s usually no murder on dates.

“You want to do _what?”_ Mary tears his eyes away from the TV to look up at you, his nose wrinkled in immediate distaste. 

“C’mon, Mare, normal couples go on dates sometimes,” you reply patiently, sitting beside him. “We should go out and do something that _doesn’t_ involve multiple homicides.”

“Baby,” says Mary, saddling you with a sardonic glower, “our relationship started when you summoned me through your bathroom mirror, okay? I don’t think we qualify as a ‘normal couple’.” With a sarcastic flourish, he puts air quotes around his words, and gives a derisive snort. “Don’t really have any interest in being fuckin’ _normal_ anyway.”

Frowning in disappointment, you settle back against the couch and look away from him. You’d been worried he’d have this reaction to the suggestion. Mary’s a simple kind of guy—as long as there’s beer to drink, metal to scream to, and soft thighs to get his head between, he’s content. And for the most part, you are, too. But sometimes you just want a little change of scenery.

For a moment, no one says anything. You pick at the threads of the blanket beneath you. Eventually, he sighs.

 _“Okay_ … what did you have in mind?” 

Beaming, you turn back to him and lean closer to slide your arms around his neck. Despite his expression of feigned annoyance, his eyes soften as they regard you, and he pulls you closer. Contemplatively, you play with the hair at the crown of his head and his eyelids droop a little with pleasure. If he had the ability to purr, he probably would be at this point.

“Hmm,” you sigh, studying his features as you think, “what about dinner and a movie?” 

“Ugh, what are we, a couple in a shitty indie romcom?” Immediately, his sleepy demeanor changes. His tongue flops out of his mouth and his nose wrinkles in disgust. He puts on a mocking tone. “My name is _Richard,_ I’m an accountant and I’ve never eaten a pussy! But I want to bang this manic pixie dream girl who _demands_ it! Whatever will I do??” With a snort, he rolls his eyes, and returns to his regular voice. “C’mon, something better than that.”

“Okay… umm. Bowling?”

“Hard pass." Mary’s brows furrow. “We could always just go to a cemetery. Those are nice and quiet… no one around...” His expression becomes wolfish as he walks his fingertips up your thigh and tugs you closer until you’re straddling his lap. “We could do whatever we wanted.”

“Mare,” you say, laughing lightly as he dips his head to kiss your throat. “If I just wanted to fuck, we could fuck _here,_ and neither of us would have to get dirty to do it.”

“Yeah, but cemeteries are sexy, babe.” He gives your skin a gentle nip and chuckles quietly when you twitch. “Where’s the fun in not getting dirty?”

“You _always_ want to go to a cemetery, though.” You sigh and think a little more, which is becoming increasingly difficult due to his growing enthusiasm for your neck. “We could go to a bar—”

“I thought you said no murder.” Lifting his head, he saddles you with a confused squint, one brow arched.

“Just going to a bar will end in murder?”

“Have you _seen_ the nasty fuckers that hang out in bars?” He wrinkles his nose.

“Mary, _you_ hang out in bars!” Flashing a patient smile, you brush the devil’s lock out of his face to look him the eye. 

“Exactly. Imagine meeting another _me._ Gross.” With an exaggerated shudder, he goes back to mouthing kisses to your neck. 

“Having two of you wouldn’t be the end of the world,” you say, distracted by the hand he’s currently sneaking beneath your shirt. You hum softly as he ghosts a palm over your nipple. He bites you again, harder this time, and your fingers curl at his scalp.

“Besides, I hang out in bars specifically to _hunt,_ babe,” he adds, his tone light and conversational, as if he’s not talking about homicide while simultaneously groping you.

“Okay, so no bars.” Suddenly, a brilliant idea strikes you, and you grasp the hand that’s inching further up your shirt, halting its progress. “Oh, but what about… a karaoke bar?”

“Hnn, that’s… _acceptable,_ I guess,” he says, heaving a dramatic sigh, and lifting his head to look you in the eye. “Can we at least go to that swanky one downtown with the private rooms?” As he scowls, the faintest of blushes begin to rise to his cheeks.

“Aw, are you getting shy on me, Mare-Bear?” With a giggle, you poke teasingly at his face and he bats away your hand.

“Do _not_ fuckin’ call me that,” he growls warningly, his expression dangerous. The effect is marred only slightly by the crimson blush that’s blossoming in full force across his face now. “Or I _will_ make you regret it.”

Giggling, you lean in to steal a swift kiss from his lips, but when you pull away, his arms tighten around your waist and halt you. He kisses you again, rumbling in pleasure as you instinctively part your lips to allow his tongue into your mouth. Distantly, you _know_ this is just his last-ditch attempt at keeping you in the apartment and it’s sort of working. A tiny, horny part of you wants to just let him push you back onto the couch and ravish you, but you valiantly resist his charms. When he pulls back a little to breathe, you slip a hand between his lips and yours.

“Nice try,” you say lightly, smirking as if there _isn’t_ a distinct throb between your legs now.

With an irritated groan, he drops his head to your shoulder. “Baby… are you _sure_ about this?”

“C’mon, Mare, it’ll be fun,” you reply soothingly, reaching up to gently tickle his neck, delighting in his squirms. “I’ll let you watch me—”

“Deal!” Before you can even finish your sentence, he’s hauling you unceremoniously over his shoulder with his unnatural strength and carrying you back to the bedroom.

It takes you a bit longer than normal to get ready. With hungry eyes, Mary watches you dress while sprawled on your bed, making appreciative little sounds when you pick out things he likes. He, of course, is still wearing his dirty clothes and makes no move to prepare for the outing ahead. Occasionally, however, he does offer suggestions.

“Go slow with that, yeah?” he says softly, as you’re stepping into a pair of undies he adores on you. 

Smirking, you take your time in pulling them up your legs, humming a little as you give the waistband a snap. He groans through clenched teeth. If he’s going to be a willing audience, you’re going to put on a show.

“Christ…” With a quiet sigh, he moves his hand down to palm himself through his sweats, his eyes nearly black with desire while they appreciatively rake your body. “You _sure_ you don’t wanna just stick around here, babe?” 

“Mary…” You afford him a patient smile as you pull on your jeans and step into the bathroom to fix your hair. “C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

“We can have fun around here,” he replies petulantly, his brow furrowing. “I can think of at _least_ seven things that are just as fun. One, your tits, two, your ass, three, your _mouth_ —”

 _“Mary.”_ Face hot, you afford him a demure smile, and toss some clean clothes onto his face. “Get dressed, you’re making this take longer.”

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, he levers himself out of your bed with a sort of clumsy grace and reluctantly shucks off his old clothes. As he stretches his arms above his head with a grunt of exertion, your gaze moves appreciatively over his lithe frame, taking in the prominent tent to his boxers. You bite your lower lip. Regardless of what Mary _really_ is, he’s fucking _gorgeous._ Lean but strong. Sweet but carnal. And he’s all yours. You’re honestly not sure what’s keeping him around—he’s way hotter than you are, in your opinion—but you’re grateful he decided to.

With a knowing, crooked grin, he meets your gaze as he steps into his artfully ripped, tight-as-fuck jeans, hikes them up to his waist, and tightens his belt.

_Fuck, he did that on purpose._

With a huff, you return to the task of fixing your hair, but Mary’s sliding up behind you now, his hands on your hips and his lips on your shoulder.

“Saw that,” he teases. “You’re so fucking _hot._ Christ, your butt looks _bitchin’_ in that outfit,” he mumbles, nipping at your neck. “Wanna fuck you, baby, please.”

“Mary… I appreciate the compliment but—” 

“C’mon, you’re goddamn sexy,” he whines, rutting against your backside and mouthing more kisses along your shoulder. “Lemme just…” As he trails off, he slowly inches a hand beneath your shirt. 

Firmly, but gently, you grab hold of his wrist, giving him a little smirk. “No, babe.”

He whines again, desperately grinding himself against your ass, his hands digging into your hips with a bruising firmness. His trapped dick rubs deliciously against you, rock hard and ready, pitching an impressive tent despite the thick denim of his jeans.

“If I suck your cock, will you let us leave?” you huff out, pretending to sound irritated. In actuality, you have to firmly grip the edge of the sink—your legs have gone quite weak at the knees.

“No promises.”

With a smirk, you turn in his embrace, your eyes glittering as you pull him in for a kiss. As he gives a rumble of approval against your mouth, he grasps your wrist, and drags it down to palm the crotch of his jeans. The stiff outline of his cock presses insistently against your hand. When you squeeze it gently, he gives a ragged grunt. Without another word, you drop to your knees, and your hands move to the belt around his waist.

“Why do you wear this stupid thing?” you mutter, fumbling with the ridiculously thick studded belt and buckle.

“Makes me look badass, babydoll,” he replies smoothly, and his hand moves towards your head, but you bat him away.

“No grabbing. For once, I wanna look nice.” He has a penchant for yanking fistfuls of your hair when he’s worked up, and you just got it looking the way you want.

“You always look nice.”

Your heart swells a little at the unexpected compliment, and your hands fall still on his belt as you meet his gaze. His expression is surprisingly soft and earnest. Respectfully, he opts for simply resting his hand on the back of your head.

 _Fuck,_ you love your not-so-scary Mary Goore. Time to show him just how much.

Finally, the belt comes undone. You let the buckle jingle aside as your hands fish for the real prize. Yanking down the waistband of his candy-heart-print boxers, you hum appreciatively as his stiff cock finally bobs free. It’s hot and flushed red in his excitement and leaking pre already. You press a light kiss to the head and he sighs. As you take the tip of his cock fully into your mouth, he groans through clenched teeth, and his hand on your head twitches. With your eyes trained on his own, you suck softly—you love watching your boyfriend come apart by your mouth.

He hisses in a breath, his mouth falling open a little. “Fuck, baby. Look at you, so goddamn hungry for this dick.”

Practically purring, you press your tongue to the underside of his cockhead, and his chin tips back, the lean muscles of his neck straining a little as he swallows. It’s unusual to see his throat so clean and unmarked—there’s some light stubble ghosting his jaw, but that’s not the same as a pretty purple hickey. You make a mental note to change that when you’re finished. 

You take him even deeper into your mouth, fighting the gag as your nose brushes against the thatch of dark curls at the base. Your name falls from his mouth like a mantra, and his fingers curl into your hair. Distantly, you’re aware he’s messing up your careful coiffing, but you can’t bring yourself to give a fuck. Not when he’s making such _lovely_ noises.

“Fuck-fuck-fuck,” he mumbles, looking back down at you, his brows knit and his face flushed with excitement, _“fuck,_ that goddamn mouth of yours is so fucking good, baby.”

Preening at his praise, you pull off, hollowing your cheeks as you go, and wrap your hand around his shaft. With your eyes trained on his face, you give him a few pumps, delighting in his moans and grunts.

“Wanna come on those titties, baby,” he whines.

“Not tonight, Mare,” you reply, swiping your thumb through the spit and pre that’s collected at the tip of his cock. “You said I looked good in this outfit, yeah? So I wanna keep looking good for you.”

“Mouth, then,” he replies, twitching as you give his sensitive cockhead a squeeze.

“Or maybe I’ll just leave you like this,” you purr, smirking at the stricken look on his dumb, handsome face. “I said I’d suck your cock; I _never_ said you got to come.”

“No-no-no-no, you can’t do that to me,” he says, eyes wide and pleading. “C’mon, babe, I’ll be good.”

“Promise?” You lick a long stripe up the underside of his cock, from the balls to the tip, and suck the head into your mouth as your fist moves up and down the shaft.

“Yesssssss,” he hisses, swallowing hard. “Yes, fuck yes, fuck _yes_ _,_ babydoll. I’ll do whatever you fucking want, just let me come down that throat.”

For one moment, you seriously consider leaving him in his frantic, unsatisfied state. It would certainly rile him up and a riled up Mary means an extra good fucking for you later. On the other hand, it would likely put him in a foul mood and you want him to enjoy himself, too. By this point, he’s whining, mumbling pleas and gently petting your hair in a desperate bid to get you to continue. With a hum, you close your eyes and take him fully into your mouth, moving your head up and down while he grunts and moans your name. 

“Fuck, baby, that soft mouth is so good,” he says, teeth clenching around his words. “Look at me.”

Only slowing a little, you look up to meet his gaze. His cheeks are flushed and his mouth is open as he pants, and his eyes are nearly black as he hungrily watches you devour his cock. In an attempt to keep your hair looking nice, he’s grabbed at his own, and now he’s gloriously, adorably disheveled. A sudden flood of love washes over you. You take him as deep as you can go, and when you swallow around him, he lets out a low, ragged moan.

“Gonna come, gonna fuckin’ _come_ —”

Moaning your acknowledgement, you pick up the pace, and in the last few moments, he loses his control. With a snarl, he yanks your head towards his pelvis, holding it in place while his cock kicks and pulses in your mouth. Taken off guard by the abrupt intrusion in your throat, you gag, your eyes watering. Hastily, you relax your throat to swallow all he has to give, your hands clenching on his thighs. He growls your name, and his hips twitch a little with each aftershock. The salt of him hits your tongue and you wince—this boy really needs a better diet.

Panting heavily, he releases your head, and his expression becomes guilt-ridden. “Shit, I-I think I fucked up your hair.” Grimacing, he helps you to your feet.

Wiping your mouth on the back of your hand, you glance at your reflection and heave a sigh. Yep. Your carefully-styled hair has become ruffled in his mid-nut exuberance. Frowning, you attempt to tame it somewhat back into shape with your fingers.

“Sorry…” he mumbles, and guiltily rubs the back of his neck. 

“It’s okay, I can fix it.” Patiently, you smile and draw him down for a kiss. “I needed a little edge, anyway, right?”

Softly, he sighs against your lips, and his hands slide around your waist. You take that as a yes. Thankfully, he pulls away and picks up his shirt from the bedroom floor. The rest of the getting ready process continues without further interruption. After another ten minutes, you’re finally ready to go. He’s thrown on a black-and-white striped shirt beneath his leather jacket. It’s nice— _ish._ Compared to the ripped and blood-stained t-shirts he usually wears, it’s a practically a tuxedo. He even adds fishnet tights under his jeans, just for that extra spice he knows you love. 

The pair of you are quite the sight. 

At the last moment, you chance a glimpse at yourself in the mirror by the door. You feel a thrill of pride in matching his punk-adjacent aesthetic, at least a little. Mary sidles up behind you, his arms slide around your waist and his chin rests on your shoulder. Appreciatively, he gives you a wolfish, hungry stare, and smirks at your reflection.

“You look fuckin’ gorgeous, babydoll.”

Blushing, you meet his reflection’s gaze. “Always nice to hear you say it.”

“I’ll say it as much as you wanna hear it, then,” he says quietly, nuzzling his nose into your temple, and pressing a kiss there. Then he heaves a sigh. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

The pair of you exit your apartment, his arm around your waist and your hand in the back pocket of his jeans. The subway car is standing room only—it is a weekend evening, after all—and you have your hands full with Mary attempting to sneakily grope your tits.

Eventually, you make it to the city proper. It’s quite the walk to The Sepulcher, the karaoke bar in question, so the pair of you begin hoofing it from the station. The bar is newer—you heard about the grand opening a couple of months ago—and from a cursory internet search, it’s right up Mary’s alley. 

The whole place is graveyard themed and styled to look like the inside of a coffin. It’s surprisingly classy in its decoration—sleek black marble floors, plush burgundy carpeting, and opulent silks hanging from the walls. Paintings of dead celebrities grace every empty space on the walls. Even this early in the evening, the place is crammed with people. Despite the fact that this particular karaoke bar has private rooms, there’s also a big communal stage right as you walk in—apparently some people would rather put their pitchy renditions of Adele’s ‘Hello’ on display.

You both grimace as one girl attempts a note far out of her reach.

Mary seems on edge the second you step over the threshold. With knit brows, his eyes flick from place to place, taking in the throng of people milling about. Judging from the way a muscle in his jaw jumps, he’s hearing things that you can’t. Problematic. The last thing you want is for your boyfriend to commit another homicide. That definitely qualifies as date-ender. As the two of you take your place in line, you slip your arm around his.

“You okay, Mare?”

“What?” Suddenly startled out of whatever dark train of thought he was riding, he jumps at your touch. With surprising ease, however, he falls into the facade of normalcy and flashes you a smile. “Fine, babydoll, don’t worry about me.”

But you do. You _always_ do. He leans over to press a swift peck to your cheek, but his expression immediately falls into a glower as his eyes sweep back over the crowd.

Better get him away from the crowd and quickly. The two of you luckily manage to swipe one of the private rooms and you pull him towards the one you’re assigned by the hostess. He follows obediently, but his eyes keep darting back to the mass of people, even when it’s no longer within eyesight. When the two of you are alone in the cozy, dimly-lit space lined with cushy sofas, he relaxes considerably. 

“Alright, so…” he mutters, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets and staring around the room, “what’s keeping people from fuckin’ in these?”

“Modesty,” you reply, flashing him a smirk. “And fear of being caught.” You sit and pick up the provided tablet that allows you to order drinks or food.

“...so what’s stopping _us_ then, sweets?”

_“Mary.”_

Grinning wolfishly, he shrugs out of his leather jacket, tosses it onto the empty chair, and yanks his shirt sleeves up to his elbows. You eye his forearms appreciatively. With a sigh, he flops down onto the couch beside you, props one foot up on the coffee table, and places an arm around your shoulders.

“What do you wanna drink?” You lean back against his arm, showing him the screen where you’ve pulled up a list of things they serve. 

“You know what I like,” he replies, after barely a glance at the tablet. He’s less visibly on edge now, but he still seems distracted—he’s glowering at random spots around the room as if he’s listening intently to the goings-on beyond. “I gotta take a piss,” he says, after a moment, and gets to his feet.

“Please don’t get lost on the way back,” you call after him. As he pulls open the door, he gives you a wave of acknowledgement over his shoulder, and disappears out into the hallway.

While waiting for him to return, you busy yourself with drink orders. Something fruity but _strong_ for yourself—you’re a little nervous—and a simple beer for Mary. Briefly, you toy with the notion of ordering some food, but ultimately decide to leave it for later. Instead, you turn your attention to the karaoke machine, and begin searching through the extensive catalogue of songs for something you recognize. You’re anxious enough about performing in front of Mary; at least knowing the lyrics would help.

From somewhere close by, you hear what sounds like shouting and look up from the song catalogue. It’s too distant and the music is too loud to really hear anything distinct. It carries on for a bit, and ends with an abrupt door slam. 

_Oh, sweet merciful Christ, please don’t let that be—_

Mary sidles into the room seconds later, looking disgruntled. He’s glaring at something over his shoulder, his head cocked to one side as he listens to sounds you can’t hear. The moment he meets your worried gaze, however, his lips twitch into an easygoing grin. 

“You pick something yet?” he asks, and he retakes his seat beside you, his arm sliding automatically around your shoulders.

“Mary…” you say, your voice cautious. “That shouting—” 

“Don’t worry about it, babe,” he says, leaning forward to steal a kiss from your lips, and moving slowly towards your throat. “...What d’you say we fool around a little, huh?” To perfectly illustrate what it is that he’s after, he slides a hand up your thigh.

“What if the waitress comes?” you huff out, tilting your head to one side to give his hungry mouth better access to your neck.

“I just said fool around, sweets,” he replies, his tone light and conversational. “I ain’t fuckin’ you… not _yet,_ anyway.” He gives a husky chuckle, his hot breath ghosting across your skin and raising goosebumps. “Bet I can get _you_ to come before she does, though.”

Asshole—he knows _exactly_ the kind of effect he has on you, too. With a surreptitious glance at the door, you slide into his lap, straddling his thighs. Immediately, his hands fall to your hips, squeezing as you wriggle against him. He smirks wolfishly up at you, his eyes hooded. God, he’s so pretty. He denies it every time you tell him so, but it doesn’t make it less true. Smiling, you lean down to kiss him, and your arms slide automatically around his neck. His lips part in invitation and you take advantage, eagerly plundering his mouth with your tongue. He hums into the kiss; you sigh and rock a little in his lap, feeling his cock twitch to life beneath you. You barely even notice his hands inching beneath the hem of your shirt.

In an instant, several things happen at once. 

The door to your room clicks open and at the same time, Mary’s deft fingers unhook your bra. With a startled yelp, you leap to your feet just as the waitress steps over the threshold. Face hot and brain scrambling, you stand there indecisively—turn away and let her see your _clearly_ loose bra, or face her and reveal your very evident embarrassment?

You choose the latter. Maybe she won’t notice?

“Here’s your order,” says the petite girl cheerfully, her eyes trained on the drinks as she sets them down on the table. “If you need anything else, please feel free to let me know!”

Tucking the now-empty tray under her arm, she at last meets your gaze, and then her eyes flick to Mary. He’s still sitting where you left him, clearly taken aback at her sudden appearance and very disgruntled about the interruption. He goes to yank a nearby throw pillow into his lap to hide the impressive tent he’s pitched, but the damage is already done. 

In shock, the waitress’s cheeks flare red and her eyes widen to the size of dinner plates as she stares at him.

“Oh, I-I’m—I’m sorry—“

“Take a fuckin’ picture, it’ll last longer,” snarls Mary, scowling up at her.

Quietly muttering apologies, the poor waitress scurries from the room. You make a mental note to leave her a big tip. The second the door clicks shut behind her, you turn and fall face-down onto the couch with a mortified groan. Nope, you’re _definitely_ going to die of embarrassment. You grab a pillow and cover your head with it.

“Okay, we can leave now. This was a stupid—”

“Hey, cut that shit out,” he replies sharply, and you feel him shift behind you. The pillow is pushed off your head as the couch dips on either side of your waist, and the warmth radiating from him crawls up your spine. He slides a hand beneath your shirt and reclasps your bra. “You worry too much, babydoll.” He leans down, parts your hair with his nose, and presses a kiss to the nape of your neck.

“Where’s my goddamn drink?” you mutter, pushing yourself onto all fours, but Mary doesn’t move. Your back is now flush against his chest and stomach, and you’re effectively caged between him and the couch. His lips brush against your ear and you freeze.

“No more negativity outta you, alright?” he asks, and the timbre of his voice has your breath hitching in your chest. “It’s _my_ job to be the shithead in this relationship.”

“...No more.” You cast him a glance over your shoulder. His eyes are nearly black, like twin pools of ink floating in a bed of moss. Fuck, he’s still _hard,_ and this close proximity is doing nothing to assuage that. 

“Promise?” he says.

For one brief moment, the fantasy of him yanking your jeans to your ankles and taking you right there is a tantalizing one. Your imagination grabs hold of that idea and runs away with it. As subtly as you can manage, you arch your back and press your hips back against his groin, delighting in the quiet noise of restraint that escapes him. One arm comes around your waist, holding you close, and he ruts against the curve of your ass with a grunt.

“Mm-hm,” is all you can manage. Your thoughts have converged entirely on the noticeable throb between your legs now.

Satisfied with this answer, Mary pulls away and allows you to sit up fully. Yanking a little on the crotch of his jeans to alleviate the sudden tightness, he picks up his beer, takes a long sip, and reclines back on one elbow. Your thoughts are a little muddled now—he’s watching you with hungry eyes and it’s doing nothing to cool the flame that’s grown inside you. 

You snatch up your drink and down half of it one gulp. Fuck, this is _strong_ and your stomach is empty; the effects hit you almost immediately. Nerves successfully soothed, you slide over to the karaoke machine interface and resume your search for a song.

“Okay, okay. I’ve _never_ done this before,” you say, giggling a little as you polish off your drink and tap on the screen to confirm your song choice. You pick up the microphone and stand.

“And I’m an expert?” he says, snorting into his half-empty beer. “Have at it, sweets.” 

Your selection’s instrumental track starts up and you begin bounce and sway your hips to the beat. It’s been awhile since you heard this one, but you still remember the lyrics—it’s one of your favorites, after all.

 _Say you'll be there_ _  
__I'm, giving you everything_ _  
__All that joy can bring, this I swear_

You turn to face him, grinning at his bemused expression. Judging from the roll of his eyes, he recognizes this song, too. The nostalgic music and strong booze are working their magic—with all the sexy grace you can muster, you saunter closer to him, holding the mic to your lips. While his head subtly bobs in time with the infectious beat, he watches you approach with an appreciative look in his eye. 

_Last time, that we had this conversation_ _  
__I decided we should be friends, hey_ _  
__But now, we're going 'round in circles_ _  
__Tell me will this deja vu never end, oh_

As you approach, you attempt a seductive lip bite, and your free hand toys with the hem of your shirt. _Seductive_ isn’t your forte, exactly, but you think it’s working. His dark eyes are glued to every wiggle of your body now, and the attention has your confidence soaring to new heights. As you shimmy and croon, you lift your shirt just a little to expose a stripe of your midriff, delighting in the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows hard. Smirking, you lean down until your lips are inches from his, and using the tip of one finger, you tilt his chin up a little.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, his eyes hooded, and his fingers twitching on his empty bottle. “Goddammit, baby—”

 _Now you tell me that you've fallen in love_ _  
__Well I never ever thought that would be, eh_ _  
__This time, you gotta take it easy_ _  
__Throwing far too much emotions at me_

With a coy laugh, you dance playfully away from him, too caught up in the rhythm now to stay still. Distantly, you’re certain that your dance moves are likely not as sexy and graceful as they feel, but you don’t care. The drink has successfully numbed your inhibitions—you dance and sing unselfconsciously throughout the entire song without even looking at him. 

When it slowly trails off, you strike a sexy pose—which is ruined only slightly by the way you sway tipsily on your feet. Mary sets down his empty beer and gives you a few sarcastic claps, smirking as he does so.

“Thank you, thank you! I’ll be here all week,” you say loftily, and take two deep, slightly unsteady bows. Grinning and a little shaky with nerves still, you sit on the couch beside him.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, rolling his eyes. Despite his prickliness, you take note of the obvious blush that rises to his cheeks when you coquettishly bite your lip. “Want another round of drinks?” 

“Hell yes.”

While the two of you wait for your order to arrive, Mary scoots closer, his hungry eyes trained on your face. This time, you’ve learned your lesson—no lap sitting. One long arm comes around your shoulders and you lean into his embrace, laughing airily as he nuzzles his face against the crook of your neck. 

“Didn’t know you could sing,” he mumbles, and mouths a soft kiss to your pulse point. “You sounded good, sweetness.”

“Ha, that wasn’t singing. That was just talking to music.” You try to brush away his compliment, but his fingers are pulling the neck of your shirt down to expose more skin and your thoughts scatter. “Y-You wanna go next?” 

“Mm, nah. You do another.” The only thing Mary seems interested in right now is sucking a blossom of purple onto your shoulder.

“I want to hear you sing,” you reply beseechingly, and your hand slides up his thigh towards his hips.

“You know what I sound like.”

And it’s true—he’s spent enough time growling out what you _think_ are song lyrics while he’s gunking up your shower with blood to know just what Mary sounds like. But still, the idea that maybe he’d grace you with a taste of his singing voice is very intriguing. You catch his chin and lift it to meet his gaze.

“Are you _sure,_ Mare?” You put on your best seductive purr, and lean in, your mouth mere inches from his. With hooded eyes, you bite back a flirtatious smile. “Mm, you look so handsome without all that blood,” you murmur, teasing him with your lips’ proximity. “You should go without it more often.”

 _“Shit.”_ A tiny groan of desire escapes him through clenched teeth and his expression twists into an irritated glower. “I fuckin’ _hate it_ when you do that. Makes me wanna agree to anything.”

Grinning, you give a tiny giggle. Unable to resist anymore, he closes the distance and kisses you soundly. As your arms slide around his neck, he hums against your mouth, pulling you insistently closer. Your hand ghosts over the crotch of his jeans. Already, you can feel the hardness there, his boner summoned into existence by your kiss and your touch and holy _fuck_ does that make you feel powerful. You pull back a fraction to taunt him.

“Oops, did I do that?” you ask coyly.

“You know you did, goddamn it,” he growls, but there’s hardly any real bite to his words. “Fuckin’ _tease.”_

“You love it.” Your fingertips scritch lightly along the nape of his neck and he practically purrs.

“Fuck me, I _really_ do.” He leans in to press his face to the crook of your neck, leaving sharp bites and soft kisses there while you palm him through his jeans. “And if you keep grabbing at me, babydoll, I’m gonna make a mess.”

“Promises, promises.”

When the door opens and the waitress enters—a different one this time—you don’t bother to leap away from him. You do, however, pull your hand away from the crotch of his jeans. He seems utterly unfazed by her presence. Wordlessly, she sets down the tray of drinks and scurries from the room. The door clicks shut and Mary pulls away from you, smirking wickedly.

“You sure you don’t wanna go next?” you ask, as he passes your drink over to you. You take a sip; this one is even stronger somehow. With a wince, you take a big gulp and set it back down. _Work your magic, booze._

“You do one more, baby, then I will, okay?” 

Smirking, he watches you tipsily get to your feet—his hands instinctively jerk forward when you pitch to one side—and settles back to enjoy your performance with his beer in hand. You already know exactly what song you want to sing and eagerly make your selection. The instrumentals start up and you sway to the slow, jazzy rhythm.

A muscle in Mary’s jaw jumps when you afford him a wink.

 _The man is tall, mad, mean, and good-lookin'_ _  
__And he's got me his eye_ _  
__When he looks at me, I go weak at the knees_ _  
__He's got me going like no other guy_

 _Cause he's my big, bad, handsome man_ _  
__He's got me in the palm of his hand_ _  
__He's the Devil Divine, I'm so glad that he's mine_ _  
__Cause he's my big, bad, handsome man_

While you sing, you shimmy your hips, basking in the scorching heat of his gaze. You’re a teeny bit pitchy with your performance—Imelda May is a little more advanced than Spice Girls—but judging from Mary’s white-knuckle grip on his beer bottle, he couldn’t care less.

 _Oh, the music he plays, the way he moves me and sways_ _  
__Rocks me to the core_ _  
__When he sings in my ear, he makes me shiver and leer_ _  
__Leaves me wanting more and more_

You reach out and cup his jaw, dragging his gaze from your body up to your face. With gentle but insistent pressure under his chin, you coax him to his feet. You press into him, your free arm sliding around his neck. Automatically, his hands come to your waist, fingers digging into your hips with a bruising firmness. He leans down to kiss you, but you simply pull away, smirking at his growl of frustration. 

_With his rugged good looks yeah he's got me hooked_ _  
__Got me where he wants me to be_ _  
__With his arms so wide, he pulls me in by his side_ _  
__He's the kind of guy that does it for me_

You never actually get to finish this one, because in the next moment, Mary closes the distance and spins you towards him, yanking you back into his arms. In that same heartbeat, his mouth claims yours in a breath-stealing kiss, growling against your mouth when you moan. The mic is unceremoniously tossed to the couch, and he guides your arm around his neck.

“Been teasing me since we fuckin’ got here,” he snarls quietly, when you pull back a little to breathe. “Can’t take it anymore.” His hand moves with purpose down to the fly of your jeans. “Wanna fuck you. _Gotta_ fuck you. Get that sweet pussy on my fuckin’ mouth _now.”_

“Mary, you owe me a song,” you try, clinging to his shoulders for support. “One song and then you can—”

He’s already gotten his hand down the front of your jeans by the time you protest. Nose wrinkled into a displeased scowl, he allows you to extricate yourself from his embrace. You pick up the mic and press it into his palm. 

The look in his eye is nothing short of _venomous._ With all the innocence you can muster, you peck him on the cheek and sit back down.

“My dick’s gonna goddamn fall off,” he mutters under his breath. As he crosses to the machine to look at the catalogue of songs, he yanks fruitlessly on the crotch of his jeans once more, shooting you dirty looks as he does so.

You _almost_ feel sorry for him.

Grumbling, he searches through the songs for a minute or two, before finally making a selection. When he turns away from the machine to face you, he saddles you with an irritated glower.

The music begins and it takes a second to recognize it.

“Hi, Barbie,” says Mary, pitching his voice down low into a gruff baritone. He turns on the spot, as if speaking to an invisible person, and his voice becomes a falsetto. “Hi, Ken!”

“No-ho-ho!” you cry in surprise, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt, as Mary acts out the introduction to Barbie Girl. When the song begins proper, you’re immediately immobilized with laughter.

He’s not _singing._ He’s _growling._ He’s turning this pop one-hit wonder into a death metal massacre before your very eyes, snarling out the lyrics into the microphone like a feral beast. It’s almost too much to bear.

 _I'm a Barbie girl in a Barbie world_ _  
__Life in plastic, it's fantastic_ _  
__You can brush my hair, undress me everywhere_ _  
__Imagination, life is your creation_

_Come on, Barbie, let's go party_

“Stop!” you plead, laughing so hard around your words you can barely get them out. You clap your hands over your mouth to muffle your cackling as you fall backward onto the couch. “Stop, stop, please, I’m gonna pee, oh my fucking God!”

Ignoring your half-hearted protests, Mary continues on, giving you his best snarling and growling vocals. Emboldened by your response, he sticks out his tongue and shimmies a little on the spot, grinning as you are reduced to utter hysterics by his antics.

 _I'm a Barbie girl in a Barbie world_ _  
__Life in plastic, it's fantastic_ _  
__You can brush my hair, undress me everywhere_ _  
__Imagination, life is your creation_

Eventually, he abandons the mic and joins you on the couch, his hands latching onto your ribs to coax further laughter from you. Paralyzed with mirth and helpless against his onslaught, you try to push him away, but he’s relentless. Flashing you a wicked grin, Mary pins you to the couch with his long body, tickling your sides until you squeal. The instrumental track continues without his vocals, but his lips are on your neck now and you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Christ, you’re a dork,” you say breathlessly, when he finally eases up. He huffs out a chuckle against your skin, and you giggle too as your arms slide around his neck.

“You got your song, baby,” he says, right in your ear. “Now do I get my treat?”

“What? No!” With an affronted glare, you whack him lightly on the shoulder. “That didn’t count! First of all, you didn’t _sing_ and second of all—”

“Fine! _Fine._ God, you’re lucky you’re so fuckin’ cute,” he mutters. As he’s getting to his feet, he steals a kiss from your lips, and snatches up the microphone. He pauses to finish off his beer, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and returns to the karaoke machine.

While he chooses, you take the time to polish off your own drink, and your gaze appreciatively roves his frame. Booze always puts you in a _mood_ , and Mary’s handsome face and sexy body isn’t exactly helping matters. As drunken, _filthy_ thoughts invade your head, you wriggle a little in your seat, bottom lip caught between your teeth.

You resist the urge to reach out and grab a handful of his ass.

With a clear of his throat, he turns to face you, his cheeks distinctly pinker, as the instrumental track begins playing. There’s only a tiny hint of a smile on is face now and a softness to his gaze that makes your heart skip a beat. Your horny thoughts are suddenly snuffed when he starts singing.

 _There goes my head up in the clouds_ _  
__Every time I hear your name out loud_ _  
__I thought I made all of it up_ _  
__I hope I'm not freakin' you out_

 _My fingernails are falling off_ _  
__I was trapped in Hell and I climbed my way out_ _  
__I thought I made all of it up_ _  
__But it's real, it's real_ _  
__It's the realest thing that ever was_

As he sings, he bounces his leg a little in time with the beat, his eyes trained on yours. The sweet sincerity to his gaze has goosebumps erupting all across your skin and heat rising to your cheeks, but it’s impossible to tear your eyes away from him. He’s never looked at you like this before.

 _I hope I'm not freakin' you out_ _  
__I didn't really get a lot of sleep last night_ _  
__I hope you still want me around_ _  
__I hope I'm not freakin' you out_

 _If you ever wake up_ _  
__Would you wanna waste some time with me?_ _  
__'Cause I don't wanna stay up_ _  
__Trying to shake how much you mean to me_

Is this real? Your sweet murder boyfriend, serenading you? It’s like something you’ve dreamed about. As you try to remember how to breathe and your heart squeezes in your chest, you chew your bottom lip. In a few strides, Mary’s closed the distance and he’s kneeling in front of you, his free hand gliding up your thigh. His voice becomes softer.

 _There goes my head up in the clouds_ _  
__Every time I say your name out loud_

Lowering the mic, he leans in to gently butt his forehead against yours. He continues, his voice dropping to a murmur so that only you can hear the words over the music.

 _I hope I'm not freakin' you out_ _  
__I didn't really get a lot of sleep last night_

Your heart swells until you feel it might burst with affection for him. You can’t fucking take it anymore. With a sigh, you dip your head to capture his lips in a kiss, your hand snaking up to the nape of his neck to deepen it. A half-growled moan escapes him as he responds in kind, eagerly pressing you back against the couch. Suddenly, his hand is at the crotch of your jeans, squeezing your pussy through the thick denim. A white-hot jolt of lust lances through you, straight to your core, and you’re wet almost instantaneously. You gasp in shock, your hands instinctively flying to his hair. Always the opportunist, Mary takes full advantage, and his tongue slides into your open mouth smooth as silk.

When your lungs scream for air and your swollen lips are beginning to tingle, you pull back, breathing hard. Mary mumbles more of the lyrics, his mouth moving from your lips to your jaw to your throat.

 _I hope you still want me around_ _  
__I hope you still want me around_

As his nimble fingers unzip your jeans and his hand slides inside, he chants the words quietly, almost _desperately._ Briefly, nips at your shoulder and neck. Your skin feels like a _livewire_ —electric and writhing. When he presses a fingertip against your clit, he bites down hard at your pulse point and sucks another purple hickey into your skin. A loud, ragged moan escapes you, barely muffled by the instrumental track, and your fingers tighten in his hair.

 _I hope you still want me around_ _  
__I hope you still want me around_ _  
__I hope you still want me around_ _  
__I hope you still want me around_

“Mary,” you whimper, rocking your hips against his palm. “Yes, please, I need— _fuck!”_

He’s slipped two fingers inside you now, and your hips buck off the couch with a cry at the surprise stretch. Mewling wantonly, you clench around his slick digits and jerk him back down for another kiss. He only groans in response, and hastily yanks his hand out of your panties. The loss of his fingers has you whining in distress, but he merely silences you with more hungry, heated kisses. 

“Pants off,” he commands, his voice almost drunken. “Christ, I’m so fuckin’ _hungry_ for you, babydoll. Gonna taste that pretty little pussy of yours.”

With lust-clumsy hands, you help him pull your jeans and undies down to your ankles. Mary wastes zero time in getting his mouth exactly where he wants it. The broad flat of his hot, wet tongue overlaps your sex and a sharp, keening moan escapes you. Your fingers curl into a fist in his hair as he winds that coil in your belly tighter and tighter with pleasure. This angle isn’t ideal—he can’t spread your legs wider and you want so desperately to hook a knee over his shoulder—but it’s good enough for now. 

With his tongue flicking and his lips sucking, it doesn’t take long. The edge approaches rapidly like a neon sign in the distance. He knows _just_ how to play you now, like a maestro at his instrument of choice. When he adds those two fingers into the mix, though, you tense and arch off the couch with a wordless cry as your orgasm washes over you like a landslide. Mary groans against your cunt, slurping lewdly at your slick. You squeal, but he doesn’t stop. His fingers pump into you, keeping tempo with his tongue and lips.

“Mare, oh my fucking god!” You fall limp as the buzz of your second orgasm ebbs, breathing hard and convulsing a little with each pulse of pleasure that he ekes from your body. “Fuck…”

Your vision focuses back slowly. The first thing you take in is Mary’s face, shining with your juices, tongue dragging slow across his lips to savor the taste of you. His hair is even more disheveled from your grabbing, now, falling across his desire-darkened eyes. Sitting up on your elbow, you see he’s maneuvered his hard cock from his boxers while tongue-fucking you into oblivion—it’s still drooling cum as he strokes himself through his peak. With hooded eyes locked onto yours, he turns and bites down on the meat of your thigh, leaving another hickey there. Breathing hard, he wipes his cum-covered hand on his jeans, pushes himself up onto his knees to get closer to your mouth and—

Suddenly, the door opens.

“Okay, what can I get for—oh my God.”

It seems that in your passion, you’ve accidentally hit the tablet and called for assistance. This unfortunate new waitress—your _third_ of the night—is standing there, taking in the scene before her with wide eyes and gaping mouth. For a moment, no one moves or speaks. 

Mary finally breaks the silence.

“Check, please.”

* * *

Minutes later, the two of you are walking down the dimly-lit sidewalk back to the train station. Mary’s arm is around your shoulders, and despite the fact that you two were just perma-banned from the new karaoke bar, this is the happiest you’ve ever seen him. There’s this big, goofy grin on his face, as if he’s committing the past couple of hours to memory. Every few minutes, he throws you these saccharine, indulgent looks that make your heart skip a beat.

Although you left all of them a big tip for their trouble, a tiny part of you still feels guilty for what you two put those three waitresses through. You can’t say you regret the experience though. Mary’s beatific, glassy-eyed grin is a reward in itself.

“Worth it,” he says with a sigh. He gives your shoulders a squeeze and leans over to kiss you sweetly.

“Totally worth it,” you mumble, leaning your head on his shoulder and sighing. “This was a lot of fun, actually—even the parts before you made me come so hard I saw the fucking future.” 

Mary’s eyebrows wiggle salaciously. “How’s about I give you an encore when we get home, sweetness? Free of charge.”

“Deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> filthy-rat.tumblr.com


End file.
